


Nights in The Vale

by ricketyrunt



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brothels, Drug Use, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Post-Quiet Isle, Sandor to the Rescue, The Vale of Arryn, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-01-18 17:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12392811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricketyrunt/pseuds/ricketyrunt
Summary: After a chance meeting in an alley near The Vale, Sandor Clegane has more questions than answers about the fate of Sansa Stark.





	1. Chapter 1

Alayne threw wide the heavy metal doors and rushed out into the cool air of the afternoon. She had barely managed to keep her wits about her during her latest meeting with Petyr. _Father_ , a voice inside her hissed. Perhaps other girls were fortunate enough to have never known fathers who trailed their greedy fingers up their daughter’s skirts, skimming greedy fingers over virginal flesh, all the while whispering bold declarations of lust. She also supposed that not many daughters were expected to kiss their fathers on the mouth, wormy tongues sliding over resistant lips. Their meetings hadn’t always been this way, but as Alayne grew closer to the age of consent, her _father’s_ desire became more and more apparent, and his daily counsel ended with Alayne pressed against his erections, knowing that squirming only pleased him more.

Today, Petyr’s fingertips had dipped further into Alayne’s skirt than ever before, daring to touch her wetness, eliciting a frightened gasp from her and a pleased groan from him. She hated that her body betrayed her in those moments of fear and anticipation, allowing him to think that she desired him in turn. He whispered against her skin all the things he meant to do to her one day, after he sold her virginity and could truly make her his. She had silently feared this to be his goal, claiming her true inheritance and her mother in one fell swoop, but he had never spoken the words aloud to her before. But, her eighteenth nameday was fast approaching and Alayne sensed that Petyr’s victory was comfortably in sight.

“Alaaaayyynnneeee….Earth to Alayne!” Her blue eyes snapped upwards, falling on her only friend, Randa, as she leaned against the wall to the left of the door. “How far away are you? Gods, I’ve only been shouting your name over and over.”

“Sorry,” Alayne huffed out a deep breath, thick with moisture that clung to the icy air. She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders and took the wall just next to Randa. “I just came from a meeting with _father_.”

Randa’s deep eyes went wide, flashing her friend a knowing glance as she pulled deeper on the cigarette between her lips. “Ah, and what does your dear father have to say now?”

Randa was the only one at The Vale who knew Alayne wasn’t truly Petyr’s daughter, though she did not know the truth of how Alayne came to be there in the first place. If she was honest with herself, Alayne was pretty foggy on the details as well. Those memories, now distant, belonged to another girl Alayne had learned to bury deep.

“He wishes to make me his after Harry.” Alayne placed a cigarette between her own lips and was raising a match to light it, when she saw Randa’s eyes lock on something behind her and stand up straighter. “What? What is it?”

“Tall, dark, and stormy. Six o’ clock…” Randa pointed her chin over Alayne’s shoulder.

“Would either of you lovely ladies be able to spare an old dog like me a smoke?” Alayne’s shoulders stiffened and fear flashed in her eyes. She’d remember that voice anywhere and the man to whom the rasp belonged. She turned slowly then, knowing she had no choice but face the apparition that loomed over her shoulder. As their eyes locked, his grin fell, but only for a moment, when it widened and seemed to split his scarred face in half. “Seven bloody hells….”

Alayne could feel the heat radiating from her chest to her hairline. She thought the towering figure before her to be dead, if all the rumors that floated to her ears from her past life were to be believed. She had mourned him, in her own quiet way, wrapped in the jacket he left behind, letting her tears lull her silently to sleep. He belonged to Sansa, to the little girl Petyr convinced her needed to hide so that Alayne could help her get home. But it was him. No other man could rival his physical prowess, except perhaps his brother, whom both girls warring inside of Alayne knew to be truly dead. And then there was the matter of his scarred visage, a childhood gift from the warrior’s cruel brother. His scars were singular and undeniable, despite the many procedures he had sought over the years to correct them.

He was dressed much the same as he had always been, a new heavy jacket about his massive shoulders, black slacks and heavy boots. She would bet that there was at least one handgun somewhere along his waist and maybe he still had the jade handled dagger tucked along his ankle. He had been a soldier and then someone’s hired gun, a stealthy killer who was paid under the guise of providing security to one of the most dangerous and connected families in all of Westeros. But Alayne had no business knowing Sandor Clegane, Alayne knew no Lannisters, nor the man much of the continent knew to be the Lannister’s _dog_.

“Sansa…” It was more breath than voice, but she felt it resonate in her chest and tears pricked at her eyes. She shook her head, shaking the past away. She could feel Randa’s enormous brown eyes scanning them, trying to make sense of the situation unfolding in their little alley.

“Alayne,” she corrected. She fished into her pocket for her pack of cigarettes, but mischief lit his face, and he plucked the unlit smoke from between her lips and placed it between his own. Randa let out an incredulous “Ha!” and turned as if to give the two some privacy.

“As you say, little bird.” He leaned toward her quivering hands, manipulating the matches between her slender fingers to make flame once more. Her breasts heaved with her racing heart and quickened breath, which she knew he noticed as he stood back to his impressive height. His stony eyes surveyed her appraisingly, the smile never once leaving his face. The face that had long ago scared her, made her think this man the most fearsome presence in her world, the face that had bubbled to the surface so often as she dreamt or needed to endure Petyr’s attentions. “No, I suppose _you’re_ not at all like the girl I once knew. She was much more polite to strangers.”

Alayne felt herself smirk at that and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. She was unsure what to do next, how to keep him here, how to bridge her two lives and find a place to meet him. Of course, Petyr would recognize him immediately and if he chose not to turn him in for what was sure to be an enormous bounty, he would certainly not like her speaking to the Hound.

“I don’t suppose it would hurt to give you a call sometime, even if you aren’t who I thought you were.” He leaned toward her, deftly sliding her phone out of her jacket pocket. If Alayne thought she was flushed before, she was surely in flames now. “You’re still a pretty young thing.” He began dialing his number in her phone and waiting for his own to ring twice before he hung up. He was challenging her, teasing her, as he had always done before. But something had changed in his eyes, she found a warmth there she had never known. His humor had always stopped at his eyes, leaving them cold and mirthless.

“I suppose you could call me, though I’m very busy and I work a lot. I’m not sure my father would like me talking to strangers.” He dragged deeply, exhaling a plume of smoke, shrouding his look of confusion. She knew that would bait him, as he knew better than that. He had seen her dead father, as real as she had.

“Lucky for you, _Alayne_ , dad’s love me.” He shot her a wink and leaned over her to again disappear her phone into the same jacket pocket as before. He paused, his lips ghosting over the shell of her ear, “though we’re hardly strangers, _little bird._ ” He took a final drag of her cigarette before placing it back between her parted lips. “Call me sometime.” Sandor gave her a serious nod before turning on his heel and disappearing into the traffic filled streets at the end of the alley.

Alayne ran her tongue over the filter between her lips, tasting the man she had longed for all these years. When she turned to face Randa, who she had forgotten for the second time since entering the alley, her friend gave her a surprised look. “I don’t think I’ve ever been eye-fucked quite like you just were…” She let out a soft whistle and sidled up to Alayne, who had turned her back once again to the cold wall. “I mean, my panties are soaked and he never even glanced at me!” Randa gestured to her distractingly large breasts in disbelief. She was used to commanding more attention than her shy, mousy friend. She also had no reservations when it came to seduction and often made the men she sought out blush with her forwardness, rather than the other way around.

“Oh hush, Randa!” Alayne smacked her friend playfully on the arm. “He clearly has me confused with someone else.”

“Yeah, someone who has him by the balls.” Randa stamped out her cigarette against the brick wall and Alayne followed suit, though she was careful not to destroy the stump and when she was sure her friend wasn’t looking, slipped it into her coat pocket. “Are you going to see him again?”

Alayne kicked at the ground, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to think of anything until Sandor made contact with her, but knowing that she couldn’t let anyone else know about her mystery man. Few people fit his description and should Randa get chatty, it wouldn’t take much for Petyr to unravel his identity. She shook her head finally, offering a shrug to Randa. Her friend let out a disappointed sigh and pulled the heavy door open.

“Let’s get back inside before we both freeze our tits off.”


	2. Chapter 2

What the fuck was Sansa Stark doing at The Vale of all places? While not outwardly a brothel, Sandor had been to enough seedy hotels to know a front when he saw one. Not to mention the outfits the girls were wearing. Gods be damned, that short high-waisted silver skirt and the skintight blue shirt…it left him little to wonder about how she’d changed in all these years. Sure, her hair was a dull brown and her company far less refined, but it was still her in those deep blue eyes. He laughed to think of what the Sansa he knew would make of that busty brunette who oozed sex that she had been speaking to when he spied them from across the street. If he was honest with himself, it was her friend that had attracted his attention in the first place, but as soon as her made eye contact with the siren whose song had always called to him, he allowed himself a bit of optimism. He had assumed her dead or worse after all these years. After Joff’s death and her subsequent disappearance, he had lost all hope of ever finding her again. Certainly not so close to where he now called home.

His phone seemed to be burning in his pocket. All he wanted to do was call her and get her to meet him somewhere. He had so many questions he needed her to answer. Was she safe there? Who had spirited her away from the capital? Who the fuck is Alayne? And her _father_? Sandor knew she had left him just enough to keep her friend from asking questions while stoking his curiosity. He could call her, she hadn’t protested his taking her number, and even if she had deleted his, he still had hers. He was proud of his quick thinking in the moment, seizing upon her shock at seeing him.

_Too soon to call, he_ thought to himself. _Let her come to you._ Sandor was sure that his appearance in the alley was just a surprising to Sansa as it was for him. She’d barely uttered a word to him and for a moment, he wondered if he didn’t have the wrong girl. But then those eyes gave her away, those Tully eyes that made her every bit her mother’s likeness.

Sandor rushed to his car, parked around the back of the large hotel, and blasted the heat as soon as he entered it. He fucking hated the mountain chill and snow and ice that covered everything. He blew into his balled fists, trying to warm them before he had to wrap them around the frigid steering wheel. He closed his eyes and saw her peachy lips parted as he plucked her cigarette from them, the look in her eyes as his gaze traveled over her ripened body. He groaned and dragged his rough palms over his face. He wasn’t quite sure what had come over him, what made him act so boldly with the girl he had spent near every waking moment thinking about since her sister left him gravely injured and left for dead. His thoughts sometimes bordered on obscene, but often in the past two years, he spent most of his time thinking about how he wanted to beg her forgiveness for the night of the Blackwater. The hazy, drunken memory of holding her down in her bed and demanding a song from her had played behind his eyes almost every night as sleep evaded him. He wasn’t sure if she understood what kind of song he wanted then, but her employment at The Vale suggested that there was no confusion now. His chances for forgiveness seemed to be dwindling.

Sandor huffed in exasperation and pulled his car out of the lot. The matte black Chevelle was one of the few possessions he had from his past life as a hired gun for one of the largest crime families in Westeros. He had spent most of his life drinking and fighting for the Lannisters after he left the military. The night of the Blackwater had been his greatest trial as he found himself no longer able to abide the cruelty that defined his employers. They had set fire to the lake that surrounded the family home, a last-ditch effort at keeping the Feds from raiding the compound. The fire had been too much for him on top of the family’s insistence that he rush into the burning fray to put down more of their foes. Cersei was drinking in their guest house, Joffrey was whining like the adolescent prick he was, and they expected him to risk everything with the flames licking at his heels. Fuck that. Fuck them, he had shouted. That was the night he became his own man.

Mechanically, he had been maneuvering the streets that led to his small apartment on the other side of the city. His mind was completely on that night so long ago, his hollow eyes fixed to the road and he somehow managed to keep from running off the road. But his biggest battle that night hadn’t been the fire, really, it was the lust he felt for the Stark girl. He had tried his best to keep her safe, keep her from incurring any further wrath from her captors, but she still shied away from him. He knew the scars his brother had given him on his face were hard for many to look at directly, but he knew it was more his harsh words and his gruff demeanor that made her uneasy. How many times had he grabbed her by the shoulders roughly, trying to shake sense into her, forgetting that not everyone was forced to grow up as early as he had. Sansa was still just a girl then, dreaming her romcom fantasies, looking for a handsome man to come make it all okay. He wasn’t handsome and he wasn’t gentle, but he had only wanted to protect her, even if he couldn’t stop his employers from treating her cruelly.

When he found himself in Sansa’s room that night, one of the many with a view of the burning waters, he wasn’t sure what he sought from her. Sandor wanted to take her away, keep her safe somewhere far away from their cruel masters, but he saw the look of fear on her face when she saw him against the wall of raging flames. Drunk and overcome by his own fears, he lashed out at her. If everyone thought him some evil monster, then perhaps an evil monster he should become. But ultimately, Sansa showed him kindness, singing him a hymn, and caressing his scarred and unscarred face with equal care. She had broken him in that moment, reminding him of the mutual comfort they had found in one another over their past years together. He was a danger to her, in every way, and so he left. A decision that had agonized him for the past years.

 “Gods be damned.” It was this sort of loop that got Sandor looking for the solution in the bottom of a bottle. He parked his car outside his apartment, slamming his hands on his steering wheel until the heel of his palm ached. He wanted to see her again and he was fairly certain he would not be able to get back to normal until he knew what seeing her again meant. He pulled out his phone and decided against calling her. If she was going to reject him, he wasn’t sure he could handle that right now. If he texted her, it would plague his thoughts all night, but it would give her time to think about her response, not just write him off immediately.

_does the little bird want to spread her wings or would she prefer the old dog come to heel?_

 

He stared at the screen for a moment before hitting send and stalking into his apartment.


	3. Chapter 3

Alayne couldn’t stop her mind from racing after seeing Sandor. She was anxious to return to her suite, dismissing Randa’s prying questions with her insistence of mistaken identity. After all, Alayne knew nothing beyond the port city of Gulltown and the Eyrie. She had a shift at the lounge to work and would need to freshen up and then head down to The Moon Door, where the other girls mingled and found their clients for the evening. It was Petyr’s strict command that she merely court and entertain men, never taking them back to bed, virginity being such a valued commodity in his line of work. He had promised her he’d sell her maidenhead and then marry her himself, keeping her from a fate of a call girl. She really just wished he’d leave her alone. The feeling of his fingers against her crept back into her mind and she groaned in disgust, trying to fight back the memory.

She focused, instead on the imposing form of Sandor Clegane, whose thick, rough fingers had never been ungentle with her. He had saved her from herself and the dangerous people around her more than once and he had always looked at her as if he were about to devour her. His intensity had scared her once, but now, it only stirred up a longing she had begun to feel sometime after he left her at the Blackwater. That fucking night. In the chaos of the raid she had managed to steal away to her room, the garages and out buildings illuminated by the burning lake just outside her window, when a familiar figure emerged from the shadows and offered to take her home. And what a fool she’d been to doubt him. He was drunk, he was armed, and he was pressing her against her bed with a force that he had never shown her. And in that moment, she thought herself safer there than with him, and he left her there alone, his black jacket laying crumpled in the corner behind her door.

Alayne dismissed these foolish regrets and tucked Sansa away.

Alayne stripped herself of her informal cocktail uniform and stood in front of her closet, her nimble fingers treading over the fabrics until they found what they were looking for, tucked deep in the back, completely out of sight. She tugged the coarse canvas jacket off the hanger and slung it around her shoulders, the thick fleece lining soft against her naked skin. It was so large it was practically a robe, and while the smell of him had long ago faded, there was still a smokiness that lingered and brought her back to that night so long ago. Her hand fluttered up to her lips, tracing them with her fingertips, imagining the kiss he placed there after she sang to him.

A faint buzzing from the floor stirred her from the memory and she leaned down to fish her phone out of her jacket pocket. She felt her heartbeat quicken and her fingers fumbled to open the text she knew could only be from him.

_does the little bird want to spread her wings or would she prefer the old dog come to heel?_

She smiled, pressing the phone to her bare chest. She had often fantasized that he would come back for her, that he would find her somehow. Sandor Clegane did not belong to Alayne Stone, but to the little voice that cried out from a dark corner in her mind. She never lost sight of Sansa, even if Petyr morphed and changed her one habit at a time. But how could she respond? She bit down on a thumbnail, turning phrases over in her mind. She didn’t know how to speak to a man she truly cared for, only how to bat her lashes and vapidly flirt. She knew Sandor would like that about as much as he liked her empty courtesies and polite mannerisms when she was a younger girl.

_the little bird must sing tonight, but she won’t leave the nest at all tomorrow, if you’d let her peep at you a bit._

She hit send before she could agonize and overthink it, like she typically would. This wasn’t some stranger, after all. It seemed too easy, falling into the secret language of their past. _Little bird._ That about melted her icy, black heart. Alayne had taught Sansa to compartmentalize her emotions, steeling herself against the fear and loneliness that had come to define her existence as Petyr Baelish’s daughter. She had almost forgotten what it was to actually feel something beyond a superficial and conditioned reaction. But Sandor Clegane had been nothing if not effective at pulling her out of the fog of her disguise. Her heart almost leapt from her chest when her phone began buzzing again. He was calling her this time.

“Hello?”

“Who is making you sing, Sansa?”

“It’s part of _Alayne’s_ job…” He sounded angry on the other end, a tone she remembered well. Her stomach lurched uneasily. “I sing a few nights a week at The Moon Door. Old standards and the like.” She heard him let out a deep breath, studded by some choice curses.

“I thought….I thought you meant a different kind of song.”

“Oh.” She felt the heat rise to her cheeks and wondered if he could hear her blushing on the other end of the line. He had asked her for a song like _that_ once. Was he jealous? She hoped so. “I sleep late, if you want to come by around noon. I’m in the south block, 32D.”

“As you say, little bird.” They breathed together for a moment that felt like an eternity, neither knowing exactly what was to come next. “Sweet dreams, _Alayne_.”

She could hear the smirk that formed her moniker and bit down on her lip. Emboldened, she replied “I hope you dream of me, Sandor.” Before she hung up, she almost swore she heard him gasp.

Rising to her vanity, Sansa gazed at her reflection in the mirror and washed away the little girl from her past. It was time to put on her mask, to submit to the bold daughter of Petyr Baelish and play the caged songbird once again. In the top drawer of the dressing table she kept a small vial of cocaine, furnished to all the girls by their loving patriarch. A whiff and she could no longer claim to be the innocent girl Sansa. She was the siren Alayne, confident and fearless, bedding men with her eyes and her songs. Tapping the glass onto the table top, Alayne gathered three pretty rows together and sweeping her hair away from her face, raised the short metal straw to her nose and inhaled the first line. As the familiar sting hit the back of her throat, she welcomed the numbing wave that washed over her. She met her deep blue gaze in the mirror, pulling the edges of Sandor’s black jacket away, revealing her breasts and her lightly freckled skin. She knew what her body did to men and how to give so little of it to gain what power she could. Opening another drawer, she produced a simple black corset and set to work encasing her waist one eyelet at a time. She smiled at the exaggerated shape it gave her, enhancing her bust tremendously. Leaning down once more, she took up another line. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest and she stood up and squared her shoulders. Alayne wasn’t afraid of anything.

Her hands deftly floated over the hangers lining her closet and landed on an emerald colored cocktail dress, fairly old fashioned, but perfect for her complexion. It would have complimented another girl’s fiery locks better, but it made her milk glass skin glow. She brushed on some blush and reddened her lips. A swipe of black mascara and her final bump completed her look. Alayne stared out of the mirror, lips parted suggestively, the neckline of her dress drawing the eye just so. Petyr will be pleased, she mused to herself, running her fingers through her loose curls.

 

“I’ll have that song now, little bird.” She rasped to her reflection, smirking to herself as she turned to leave.


	4. Chapter 4

“Fuck me.” Sandor tapped his phone against his forehead, sinking into his couch. Sansa's command to dream of her had arrested him. She had no reason to know that when he closed his road weary eyes and saught peace his mind always wandered to her instead. _A_ rhythmic thumping at his feet drew his eye. Stranger, his little grey pit bull, strummed his tail manically, his tongue rolling out of his smiling face. “Well, I’ve finally found the girl.” His dog merely panted his same sweet smile in response. “She’s not the same little bird I left behind, though.” He sighed, patting the cushion beside him, beckoning Stranger to join him. Eighty pounds of pure muscle and a velvety soft head rammed into his shoulder as he made himself comfortable beside his master.

It hadn’t occurred to him to look for Sansa on the internet, knowing his connections and the circles he ran in kept him better informed than most. He believed the girl dead, knowing that evading the Lannisters would have been difficult enough, let alone hiding oneself away. Going back North would have been obvious and ill advised, as nothing remained of her home except a burned out mansion and perhaps some ghosts of her noble family. True enough, the Eyrie was a hard place to call home, especially during a long winter, and very insular. No one here would know her, even if her aunt had been a powerful woman in the community, he doubted the Starks spent much time visiting the crazy old bitch.

A simple search yielded few results worth investigating. Alayne Stone was a teacher in the Neck, a struggling actress from a prominent Mummers group that toured the entirety of Westeros, even a grandmother who set up a social networking profile to seemingly torture her grandchildren in the digital age. But down at the bottom of the second page of search results, he hit on something. It was a profile for the lounge singers of The Moon Door, the most popular jazz night club of the Eyrie, though he couldn’t claim to have encountered many in his time there. Alayne’s bio was pure shit and drivel, meant to make her alluring to men, as if the sultry look she gave the camera in her photo was not enough to drive that point home.

And fuck, but that photo. The dark haired girl had a peacock feather tucked in a loosely plaited braid that fell over her bare shoulder, the tight black dress she was wearing pushed off the shoulders. Her body curled around the microphone stand, her long ivory fingers cradling the old microphone to her parted lips. Icy blue eyes stared directly out at him, as if she were right there, pinning him with her gaze. He felt himself harden just looking at the one who haunted even his most chaste dreams looking like a bloody pin-up girl. He saved the photo to his phone and thought of fire, the only thing to dampen his lust.

Stranger let out a long, squeaky sigh, drawing his attention. His heavy flat head was pressed against Sandor’s thigh, his watery brown eyes looking up at him. “Alright, alright, let’s go.” With resignation, Sandor stood as his dog happily bounded toward the door where he sat beneath a hook that held his lead. A well-trained dog, Stranger sat and waited patiently for his master to catch up. He wasn’t as agile a handler as he had been before the injury to his leg, and while he had avoided a limp with extensive physical therapy, he found that Stranger was able to best him with his keen interest in squirrels and neighborhood cats. And while he didn’t like most people, Stranger was a docile puddle of a dog beneath Sandor’s touch and praise. Stranger was a good dog.

Sandor leashed his friend and they made their way out onto the sidewalk. He lived in an old neighborhood of apartment complexes and single level ranch houses, all built in simple brick and wood. Zipping his coat to his chin, Sandor let Stranger lead him down the path at a comfortable pace, letting his mind wander. He supposed he’d have to tell the Little Bird about her sister, about the time he spent shielding Arya from the Stark’s enemies and his failed attempt to reunite her with their mother. He frowned at that. They had very narrowly avoided the wedding massacre, but he had felt an impotent failure for not being able to stop the madness that unfolded or to shield the young girl from the bloodshed. He had never been a good man, but he tried to be good to the young wolf girl, to show her how to be strong and take care of herself. Hopefully he taught her enough, since he had to watch her take off on her own when they both thought him dead.

He supposed he’d need to tell Elder Brother, his sponsor. How much of the time the men had spent together through Sandor’s recovery had been about Sansa? As Sandor worked to heal his body, he found himself clear headed and sober, letting the Hound slip away. Arya may not have delivered the mercy he begged for in that alley, feeling the world slip away into darkness, but he had found another kind of salvation. The loss of anger had lightened him tremendously and Sandor Clegane stood a little taller. He thought back on the kindness Sansa had brought out in him over their years together, just by her sheer innocence and acceptance of him. She had sought comfort from him more than once and he had repaid her with aggression. His time with Elder Brother had shown him that he could be a better kind of man.

He knew then, he would take Sansa Stark away from the Eyrie. He would drag her to the ends of the world if it meant he could keep her from being used yet again. He had failed her in the capital, but he would show her how much he had grown since the last time he offered to help her disappear.

 _And now look where she is,_ he thought, bitterly. _From one gilded cage to another_.

Stranger had stopped at some point and by extension so had Sandor. “Come on, boy. Let’s get home.” The wind had picked up since they left the house, and Sandor found he had no desire to linger on the darkened street, thinking that this Alayne Stone could have turned Sansa Stark into anything but a sultry lounge singer. They plodded back to their home, melting into the warmth of the couch, daylight officially gone from world. He pulled a blanket up around him and Stranger, pulling his phone out from the cushion below him. He was disappointed when there was no message awaiting him after their walk, but he knew it was too soon to expect anything more from her. He would just have to wait until the next day, even if she wouldn’t see him until noon. Did she even realize he was always up with the goddamn sun and would be clawing his eyes out from boredom by ten?

He groaned and opted for ordering a pizza and blowing his brains out on terrible television until he could fall asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little dicey with Petyr coming up...

“My dear, you were positively _delicious_ ,” Petyr purred into Alayne’s ear, his tongue flicking over her lobe. She sat stiffly in his lap, her arms pinned at his side by his traplike embrace. He was using his legs to keep hers spread, the hem of her green dress barely keeping her covered from his touches. His ringed fingers were clawing at her thighs, making her feel anxious and caged. “I know Harold has agreed to pay me handsomely to be your first, but I’ve a mind to take you myself.” He kept one arm clenched around her waist, encircling one arm and his left hand clutching the other, leaving his right hand to dip an eager finger into her panties, brushing a knuckle against her warmth. She shuddered with fear, but he took it as encouragement, pressing his lips to the crook of her neck with a growl. “Would you like that, Alayne? Would you like me to fuck that sweet little cunt of yours?” He bucked his hips against her, pressing himself almost inside her, his thin slacks and her dress leaving little to the imagination.

Alayne choked back a sob, feeling his finger slip deeper beneath her lacy underwear and she instinctively snapped her thighs closed.

“Now Alayne,” Petyr said, wrenching her legs back open, pinning them beneath his own. “Is that any way to thank your father?” He slapped each thigh hard, leaving red marks on them and rousing a yelp from the trembling girl beneath his touch. “I’ll let Harold have the first taste,” he said, his lips skimming her neck. “But you’ll be mine every night after that, and that is so much sweeter.” His hand cupped her sex and his middle finger deftly pushed the thin barrier out of his way and he plunged the digit inside of her. To her dismay, she was wet enough and he found little resistance, which only encouraged him. Holding her tight against his lap, he rubbed the length of himself against her, moaning and grunting as he forced her hips to match his rhythm. She stared at the wall ahead of her, grateful he couldn’t see her face and tears that she fought so hard to bite back. Petyr had taken liberties with her before, but never like this. She knew it was only a matter of time before he took what he really wanted, whether she was willing to give it or not, and that would be it for her. She’d throw herself off the balcony of one of the upper floors or slit her wrists in the tub.

His movements became more frantic, his finger turned to two and he fucked her harder with them, as his grunting gave way to a hard bite to the nape of her neck. Alayne cried out in pain as the man beneath her began to still, having reached his peak and finding himself with no further need for the girl atop him. He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips and sucking her off of them. “Just as sweet as your mother.”

Petyr gave her a shove away from him and turned back to his desk as she righted her clothing and her hair.

“I’ll be leaving for a week or so to take care of some business in the capital tomorrow morning.” She daydreamed of breaking each terrible finger as they shuffled the papers on his desk, suddenly becoming her father once again. “You’re to behave yourself as always and if you need anything, Lothor will be keeping an eye on The Vale in my stead. Is that clear?”

“Yes, father,” Alayne replied. Sansa shrieked inside her mind.

“And Alayne?”

“Yes, father?”

“You’ll not deny me again, do you understand?”

“Of course, father.”

His serious face rearranged into a look of fatherly love and admiration. “Good, now give us a kiss.”

Alayne mustered the small bit of courage she had left and leaned in to kiss his cheek, but of course Petyr wanted more than that, and turned himself to catch her mouth with his own. He parted her lips with his tongue, forcing her to taste herself in his mouth. He allowed her to break away after a time and she gave him her best smile and a small nod and closed the door behind her.

Out of sight and away from his prying hands, the tears began to stream down her cheeks wildly. Her breath became ragged and she felt the walls closing in around her. But a thought came to her then, a vision of grey eyes and strong hands, hands that had always been gentle with her. _Sandor_ , Sansa seemed to whisper inside her mind. _Petyr will be gone and you have Sandor. He would snap the tiny man in two for you, if he knew what happened here._

Alayne straightened up, wiped the tears from her face, and sought out the only companionship the walls of The Vale contained for her. Randa lived in room not far from hers, just one floor up, where girls who were expected to bed men lived. She rapped her knuckles against the scarred wooden door three times, in rapid succession.

“Come in,” Randa called from the other side. Alayne pushed the door in and broke into a smile as she saw her only friend pouring two generous offerings of whiskey. “You look like you could use one of these.”

“You have no fucking idea.” Alayne huffed herself into one of the two old leather armchairs that sat at the foot of the bed, a small wooden table between them. She saw Randa had already laid out some coke on an old mirror and Alayne helped herself to a quick bump while her friend settled in and handed her the drink. “Just came from Petyr’s.”

Randa’s eyebrows lifted, bringing the drink to her lips and taking a deep swig like an old pro. “Again? Just wanted to show his _gratitude_ for your performance tonight?”

“More the same. He told me Harry offered him a lot of money to be my first but then assured me I’d be his alone after that.” She downed the glass in two short swigs and rose to fetch herself another. “I can never seem to rid myself of the feeling of him, of his hands and his eyes on me.”

Randa lowered herself to take up a line and shook her head. “I’ll never understand why he wants people to think you’re his daughter. He’s a kinky little fucker.” She drank deeply and passed the glass back to Alayne, who was ready to fill it.

While Randa knew Alayne was not Petyr’s daughter, Sansa couldn’t be sure Randa had no idea who she truly was. Even though the Eyrie was far from the capital, national news had picked up the stories of the Lannister crime family’s targeted attack against Ned Stark, the turncloak informant who opened the eyes of the realm to the Lannister’s corruption. Her true father’s _honor_ cost Sansa and her family everything. After Ned’s death, open season had been declared on the Starks. No doubt a whisper of Sansa Stark would be enough to link the two girls together, despite the change in hair color.

“I look like my mother, _the one that got away_ ,” Alayne practically spat. She tipped the rocks glass back, emptying the generous pour in one easy swallow. The hangover she’d be nursing tomorrow seemed too far off to matter and how many times had Sansa seen the Hound drunk off his ass? More times than she could count.

“As if your family situation couldn’t get more _fucked_ up, sweetling.” Randa passed the bottle back with a shrug. “At least you can maybe keep that big brute you met this morning on the side.” Randa drank deeply and closed her eyes, as if conjuring the image of Sandor Clegane. “I bet all of him is big.”

“Randa!” Alayne tossed a pillow at her friend, causing her to spill a bit of her drink. “I don’t even know him let alone know what to do with him.”

“Let him fuck you senseless. I bet a man like him knows exactly how to make a woman sing.” Alayne felt herself redden deeply, reminded of her naivety that night he had asked her to sing. “Has he called?”

“No,” Alayne lied, moving coke around with the plastic card on the mirror, cutting herself a generous line. “I’m not sure I want him to.” She leaned down, inhaling deeply, feeling the familiar rush hit her.

“Keep your hooks in him. Sure, you can’t ever let Petyr know you see him, but he’s too good to just pass up.” Randa clinked her glass against Alayne’s, and the two girls fell into dirty talk and giggles. Alayne wasn’t sure what time it was or how much she had to drink or sniff, but around sunrise, she found herself back in her room, peeling off her dress and collapsing into her unmade bed.


	6. Chapter 6

Sandor had fidgeted the whole morning. He was a man of action and having a task set torturously out of reach was driving him mad. He didn’t want to overwhelm Sansa by being too eager, showing up hours before her invitation, but he had finally found her and felt pained by their immediate separation. So, he set his jaw and idled away, doing laundry, walking Stranger, even cleaning his gun that he hadn’t fired in years. Finally, he felt it was an appropriate time to leave and make the twenty-minute drive to The Vale. If he decided to pick up coffee and one of those apple fritters he loved so much from the coffee shop not far away, he’s show up about ten after twelve. Not desperate and not disrespectful for a casual meeting.

But when he found himself outside 32D, on the south side of the hotel, his steady knocks yielded no answer. He pressed an ear to the door and heard nothing and after waiting for ten uneasy minutes, he decided to try the knob. To his surprise and delight it was unlocked, though her carelessness made him nervous for her, and he decided to bolt the door behind him when he entered. She was sprawled out, face down on the bed, naked as her nameday save some frilly black panties. He knew a hangover when he saw one. He smiled to himself, setting the coffee and donuts down, to pull a thin blanket over her. She smiled, her blue eyes fluttering open, her face flushing when she saw him.

“Still haven’t learned how to properly lock a door, eh little bird?” Sandor smirked at her, hovering just above her, close enough to smell the whiskey from the night before. Sansa twisted beneath him, arching slightly against the hand still pinning the blanket that lingered against her shoulder.

“Will you take my song now, Sandor?” She bit her lip and locked her eyes on his, though he suspected she was still drunk. “I’ve dreamed of you for so long.”

“Little bird, hush.” He pushed her hair out of her face, wishing her locks were fiery instead of mahogany. “You’re drunk.”

“Not anymore, and isn’t that what you’re here for? To take a song from a little bird?” Her voice was huskier than he expected, and it got his heart racing. She set a mischievous smile upon him, slinking a pale and slender hand down the front of his slacks. A part of him screamed to lean into that touch and fulfill every idle fantasy he had ever had about the girl below him, biting her lip with her wild hair engulfing her porcelain face. But the newer part of Sandor, the new skin that stretched over old, twisted scars, moved deftly, trapping her wrist as it dared to dip past his waist. He pulled her toward him, not ungently, and let his nose brush against hers. The confident glow fled her eyes as her breathing changed, becoming more erratic.

“When I’m here with you, you put Alayne away. I didn’t come here for her or to take anything.” Letting his grasp on her relax, he released her back onto her pillows and fiery hair. “Only for Sansa, only for what she _gives_.”

 She sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest, and gave him a small nod, never meeting his gaze. He pulled up an ancient vinyl chair to her bedside, sensing he had embarrassed her. He let out a deep sigh, he had not come here to reproach and reprimand. Especially when she was being so forward with him. Rather than belabor his intentions and expectations, he reached over to her, offering her the coffee he had gotten for her. Sansa perked up at that, smiling at him with soft eyes. “Oh, you are the fucking best.”

“Is that so?” Sandor cocked an eyebrow at her, sinking into the wooden chair. “There’s cream and sugar in this little bag, I wasn’t sure how you took it.”

“Black is perfect.” She groaned appreciatively and took a deep drink. “But if you really love me, you’ll bring me iced coffee tomorrow.” She was giving him a coy smile, testing his reaction.

“Oh no, this was a one-time only thing.” Sandor flashed her a rare, but genuine, grin, taking away any sting she could possibly find in his words. He would never leave her again and he hoped she knew that.

“Oh, you’ll be here again tomorrow, Sandor Clegane.” All pearly teeth and pretty lips, she looked truly beautiful as she beamed at him. “Now, give me the treat you brought for me.” She leaned forward to snatch the now greasy paper bag from his hand, only to practically fall into his lap as he snapped it away from her. She cocked an eyebrow at him in warning. “I can smell the damn apple fritter, Hound, and I’m a hungry little bird.”

Sandor grinned wolfishly, glad to regain his footing so easily with her. They had always gotten along, even if he had to be brash with her on occasion, but she reminded him of what childhood could have been, were his life just a bit different. “There’s nothing better than a warm apple fritter.” He passed her the bag, having already inhaled his on the drive over to her. She clutched the bag to her chest, her hair a wild mane about her head, her mascara darkening the outer corners of her eyes. He laughed as he watched her close her eyes and tear into the pastry greedily. “Never in my life did I think I’d see you again, let alone sprawled naked and drunk out of your mind.”

Sansa blushed, and she was truly the Sansa he remembered when that heat climbed up her chest. Undressed as she was, he saw that the color traveled far lower than her neck and he felt a strong urge to climb into the bed with her and kiss the sweetness from her lips. The man he was five years ago would not have hesitated, but now he felt leaden and rooted to that chair.

“I dreamed of you often,” she said again, licking the frosting from her thumb, her eyes never leaving his. “Did you ever dream of me?”

“Always, Sansa.” His voice was thick in his throat and he was beyond aroused at the sight and the sound of her. “I’ve looked for you in every crowded room, every store, every street, but you were only ever in my dreams.”

That undid her resolve. Any pretense of hiding behind the brown haired girl she had become fell away and Sansa relished truly being seen. Sandor knew how to find a woman to fuck but that was never what he wanted from her, completely. There had been something akin to love between them for so long that they had missed the shift from protective to all consuming.  There was no mistaking the lust that hung thick with anticipation between them now.

“Why were you here yesterday? Do you live in the Eyrie?” Sansa moved to the edge of the bed, their knees touching now, her eyes pleading with him, her voice so low. “Have we been this close all along?”

He wet his lips with his tongue, bringing his hand to her knee, rolling his thumb over the bone through the sheet. “I spent some time at The Quiet Isle. It’s not too far from here.”

“The bougie rehab where all the celebrities go?” Her eyes widened in surprise, her hand moving to his face. He let himself lean into her touch as he let out a soft chuckle.

“Yes, that’s the one.” He lifted his eyes to hers and it seemed she had moved closer still. “Listen, Sansa, I found your sister after I left the capital.”

“Oh, Sandor, Arya’s alive?”

“Last I saw, she was, Little Bird.” He laid a kiss against her forehead and her eyes closed as a sigh left her lips. “She left me for dead, but she was better off without me. I almost got us both killed on numerous occasions because I was drunk and reckless. One of the counselors from the Isle found me in an alley and brought me in. Expensive little resort, but discreet. Kept me from losing my life to one of the Lannister lackeys sent to bring me down. They patched me up and got me through being winesick and I’ve been living about twenty minutes away for the past few years.”

Sansa wrapped the blanket around herself, climbing into his lap, like the little girl he once knew her to be. He leaned back in the chair and wrapped his arms around her, bringing her head to his chest. Her hand gripped at his sweater and his hand brushed through her hair.

“Oh gods,” Sansa gasped, lifting her head from his chest, pulling at his shirt. He saw then that tears were spilling down her cheeks and onto them both. “Are you in this neighborhood a lot?”

“Every Monday, Thursday and Saturday. For group.” His tone was bitter and they both realized how close they had been all along. “We meet at the Sept just across the way.”

The sound that left her was a cross between a sob and a chuckle. She pressed her forehead to his and shook him with more force than he thought she had in that tiny body. “I prayed for you to come for me every day, before I put on Alayne’s face and lived Alayne’s life, I asked the Gods to send me the only man I knew could protect me.”

The sobs had taken her over now and she was clutching to him desperately. He brought his hands to cup her face, rough thumbs rubbing the tears away. She looked so beautiful, so much older than the image he had kept in his mind. He dragged a thumb across her lip and her big, watery eyes fluttered open. She gave him a slight nod and he pressed his lips to hers, feeling as though he could take her pain away through her kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, the sheet parting and her breasts pressed against his chest. They were trying to consume each other’s grief, their tongues pressing each other to kiss deeper. Sansa bit his lip and he growled into her mouth, gripping her waist tightly. She moaned and held him tight against her, her nails digging into his scalp.

Sandor pushed the blanket off her slender shoulders, dragging his palms over her fresckled breasts, feeling her nipples harden beneath his touch. Sansa broke their kiss to look at what he was doing and he took the opportunity to drag his kisses down her neck and collarbones, his thumbs pulling on each rosy nub before taking them into his mouth, between his teeth. She grasped fistfuls of his hair and arched her back against him, a deep moan escaping her lips. He smiled against her skin, hoisting her up with a hand curled around her ass and another cradling her neck. He laid her down on the bed, letting his hands stroke her sides, her legs, her stomach. She was all his and he didn’t even know where to begin. She bit her lip, a shy blush coloring her face and breasts. She hooked her heel in the crook of his knee and pulled him toward her. She brought her lips to his again, her hands moving to work on removing his pants, but all she seemed to do was fumble, awkwardly rapping her knuckles against him, her fluttering touch driving him mad.

“Sansa, you’ll finish me if you don’t stop that.” He undid the zipper and kicked his jeans and boxers off the bed behind him. She pawed at his sweater until he helped her take that off as well. She hooked her thumbs into her panties and slid them down her long legs. He let his eyes take her in before their mouths met again, their hands roaming over each other’s naked bodies. It had been too long since he had been with a woman, let alone the one that colored most of his fantasies, and it was an effort to keep her from taking him in her hand. “Greedy little bird,” he whispered into her ear. She shivered as goosebumps spread across her over sensitive skin. He pulled his head back to look in her eyes, searching for any hesitance. “Sansa…” It sounded like a plea from his lips.

“Yes,” she replied, kissing him again. “Yes.”

Sansa felt his warm hand gently skim her thigh as his mouth descended on hers hungrily. She couldn’t help the moans and shudders that possessed her under his burning touch. She felt her own hand searching for him, her palm meeting his soft, hot skin. He groaned under her touch and she couldn’t help but smile into his kiss. Randa was right, _he was huge._ She wrapped her hand around him, letting her fingers roll his skin over the iron that seemed to keep his cock erect. She felt his thumb press against her clit, bringing on a jolt of pleasure than seemed to heat her entire body. He pushed a finger inside her, rolling his thumb over her in small, tight circles. After what seemed like an eternity of kissing and feeling, he seemed to have his fill and moved her legs around his waist. He guided himself to her, wetting himself with his hand, with her. He pressed against her and she tried to keep herself from tightening up, but there was pain in that first thrust. He stilled himself, barely inside her, and reached out for her face, forcing her gaze.

“Is this your first time?”

Sansa considered lying to him, but knew that wasn’t fair or right and he would only resent her for it. But she was afraid he wouldn’t have her if she was a virgin. Finally, she nodded at him, gripping him tight against her with her long legs.

“Are you sure you want this? With me?”

She smiled, pulling him to her again. His forehead was pressed against hers, his breath hot against her mouth. She peppered his mouth with kisses, her hands roaming his shoulders and back. “Make me yours, Sandor. I’ll always be yours.”

He swallowed the vow on her lips and pressed himself into her slowly. There was pain, but as he took her slowly, rolling his hips into her lazily, his hands and mouth caressing every bit of her, there was a slow building pleasure left in its wake. She lifted herself to meet him, moans of pleasure sounding with every thrust that put him deeper inside of her. His need for her seemed to build and he moved faster and harder within her. “Fuck, Sansa…” Their eyes met, her lips parted, his grip in her hair tight. He saw her face change, her eyes flutter as her body sunk under a crashing wave, a pleasure that reverberated against him and he lost himself.


	7. Chapter 7

He knew he was in love with the little bird on her thirteenth nameday. Stranger had run off from him, toward the Godswood of King’s Landing, a largely neglected park that saw few visitors, spare Sansa. He followed the pup’s eager path, through the fallen trees, to the reflection pool that served as the central point of the quiet woods. As some petulant retaliation against his personal whipping girl, Joffrey had every weirwood cut down, an affront to the only soul that kept to the old gods. Joffrey relished anything that seemed to deprive Sansa of any joy, big or small. Sansa still made a point to visit her father’s sacred place and while her visits typically commanded a degree of somber reflection, today Sandor found himself following the sounds of girlish laughter.

Amongst the stunted ancient trees, he found the girl and his dog in an open meadow, spotted with wildflowers. Where many shied away from his muscular companion, Sansa had seemingly enchanted Stranger, as he sat idly at her feet, his tongue lolling out of his smiling face. She was dressed in a simple blue gown, tied around her waist with a silver sash, and her hair swirled about her shoulders as she spun around the meadow. She looked truly free and blissfully unaware of his presence as he approached her from the tree line.  She wore a crown of braided yellow flowers and was busy plucking more from the tall grasses that swayed around her knees and was about to crown his fearsome dog when she suddenly became aware of his gaze.

Sansa looked at him directly, almost defiantly, testing him as she crowned his dog with flowers.

“What do you think you’re doing, girl? No one will fear him looking like a forest nymph.” Sandor always sounded harsh, but his tone was lighter than she was used to and alone in the cover of the woods, he let a smile play at the corners of his mouth. This wasn’t lost on her. Sansa smiled broadly, setting her nimble hands to work on another wreath of tall strong grasses, omitting flowers where pliable branches would give structure to a more masculine offering. She hummed a song he thought faintly familiar as she approached him, no fear in her eyes, and reached up to crown him.

“It’s my nameday.” Her face was unburdened and flushed with the kind of spirit only fresh air and innocence could inspire. Her face was eager and trusting and her hands hovered above him, looking for some response from him. She worried her lower lip with her teeth, he was sure she was expecting his usual gruff reproach, but he felt powerless under her gaze. “Would you deny me?”

He grunted, but never moved to stop her. Her slender hands set the braided grass upon his head and her hands found his as she pulled him into a spin. He didn’t fight her, turning with her until her laughter forced a smile to his face and he felt himself growing dizzy. She pulled him closer, his arms encircling her, and they collapsed to the forest floor. Sansa found her way unto his lap and Sandor felt no reason to chase her away, drunk on her girlish delight. Stranger padded over to them, resting his head against his master’s leg, his baleful eyes cast up toward Sansa, as if begging for her attention.

“What has the little bird wished for on her nameday?” Sandor pushed a strand of firey red hair behind her ear, his fingers caressing the wildflowers encircling her flushed face and he wished he could stop time, or go back to his own youth, and hold on to this moment a while longer.

“A kiss,” she said, blushing furiously, pushing her freckled cheek toward him. He couldn’t help but smile and brush his thumb over her offered skin. He pressed his lips to her sun warmed skin and a soft giggle escaped her lips. She flitted away from his grasp, singing as she circled him in the tall grass.

 

_I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves,_  
and bind my hair with grass,  
But you can be my forest love,  
and me your forest lass.

 

She was everything he had lost, all those years ago, when his brother’s cruelty marked him and seemed to wire him for anger. How could she lose so much and still find good in the world? He sat in the tall grass, his back against a large stump, lazily watching her hum and dance, Stranger nipping at her heels. Gregor had ensured that love would be an evasive feeling for Sandor, taking away everyone who ever showed him kindness with the burned landscape of his skin. Sure, the many surgeries to repair his ruined face improved his visage, but he would never know what it was like to be looked upon without fear or judgement. He knew what people whispered about him, speculating how his face came to ruin. Was it in battle? Had someone tried to defend themselves against the fearsome man with fire? Had he simply drank too much and carelessly fallen into a flame? He made damn sure no one ever suspected he had been _helpless_ , that he could ever have been a _victim_.

But Sansa knew. He had bared his drunken soul to her, though he himself never quite understood why. Somehow, he knew he wouldn’t find pity in her deep blue eyes, but rather a shared sense of injustice and a deeper understanding of the man she had learned not to fear. He was so disarmed by her, just a girl so many were quick to dismiss as stupid, who he knew to be so perceptive. Though she was still always so polite and well mannered, he knew her mind and she seemed to seek him out for his advice, though he knew his harsh words sometimes stung.

But Sansa was right about one thing. He would not deny her this moment today. Nameday or no, her father’s recent assassination and her brother and mother’s subsequent exile left her a prisoner to the criminals that were determined to take everything away from her. He would let her have this, he would let her have anything she wanted from him. And he knew that he loved her, though her age among a thousand other reasons would certainly keep them apart. But he promised himself, grass crown upon his head, that he would keep her safe, even from himself.

Sansa had stopped her flight through the meadow and had come to a halt on her knees before him. He snapped out of his thoughts, returning her intense gaze with smiling eyes. A blush colored her cheeks and she lowered her eyes briefly, her lips parting and closing as she tried to muster the courage to speak what was on her mind.

“Out with it, girl.” He nudged her leg gently with the toe of his massive boot and she flushed a bit darker, as she always did when he called her out.

“What if the little bird wished for another kiss on her nameday?”

Sandor’s heart leapt, hearing his nickname for her repeated to him, and he felt for a moment a wave of affection radiating from her smile. He cleared his throat, his rasped response barely above a whisper. “Aye, the little bird could have another.”

She beamed, confidently now, as she slowly walked closer to him on her knees. He leaned forward, brushing her unruly curls away from her face and studied her for a moment. He gently cupped her neck, turning her face slightly with his thumb to place his lips on her cheek again. She turned her head at the last moment and captured his lips with hers. It was an innocent kiss, but Sandor felt his own face flush and her small hands gripping his shoulders. He smiled into her lips and nudged her nose with his playfully as he slowly backed away. “Cheeky little bird.”

Sansa giggled and feigned a fainting spell as she flopped onto the grass beside him. They three sat there for a while, he was not aware how long, ignoring the world that awaited their return.


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa hesitated on the stairs that led to the mostly unused porch. She knew he liked to drink there, with little distraction, and she expected that her unannounced presence would be met with his predictable gruffness. Sansa steeled her nerves and straightened the hem of her shirt before she ascended the last few stairs to the patio where he stood. He didn’t seem surprised to see her there, nor was he quick to dismiss her. He had a bottle of wine hooked in his thick index finger and his glassy eyes seemed softer than she remembered and her fear melted away. He cocked his head, beckoning her to join him against the railing, looking out over the Blackwater Rush. Blinking green beacons studded the horizon and the clear night sky was reflected in the tranquil surface of the lake. She found herself beside him, wondering why he was the only one who seemed to take the time to enjoy this view.

Sandor offered her the bottle and she seemed to forget herself as her hands moved of their own volition and she drank deeply, despite the bitterness of the wine and her inexperience. He smiled at her, a rare but cherished face she felt he reserved only for her, and he leaned his shoulder into her as she passed it back. Sansa breathed deeply, trying to summon the courage to speak frankly with him, and let her hand hover over his on the cool railing.

“I wanted to thank you, for saving me.” She spoke to the wind, unable to brave his gaze, resting her hand gently on his. To her surprise, he trapped her hand within his, squeezing her his response, never breaking his gaze on the water. “No one else would have risked what you did for me, and I’ll never be able to repay you.”

“It was the right thing to do, no need to give me thanks.” His tone was even, matter of fact, but his eyes were warm with drink and she felt her stomach flutter as he looked upon her. He stumbled backwards a bit, settling into the lounge chair behind him, tipping the bottle to his lips once again. “Few have lost more than you, little bird.”

_Except for you,_ her mind replied.

 They looked at each other for a moment, comfortably appraising the unnamed bond that had been formed over the past years. But the depth of their connection had recently changed. He had risked his employment to save her when his orders demanded that he either join in her suffering or turn a blind eye. He had defied every expectation that he was the loyal, obedient dog, coming to her rescue when she had lost all hope. Her fifteenth nameday had come and gone with little acknowledgement, save a single anonymous lemon chiffon cupcake left on her night table that she dared not hope was from Sandor.  She unceremoniously found herself the object of predatory stares from the men who found employment amongst the Lannisters, subject to all manner of harassment, encouraged by their adolescent leader Joffrey. The boy she had once considered a childhood friend, sharing the kind of youthful infatuation that some girls romanticized into their first true love, seemed to encourage her humiliation.

One night, she found herself navigating the lakefront compound alone as she wore the all to familiar path between her cage and the desecrated Godswood Park. She found herself lost in memories, reliving that nameday she shared with Sandor so completely that she failed to sense the danger that awaited her in the stairwell. Boros, a portly man of Joffrey’s personal guard, pulled her roughly from her daydream and into a little used storage area. Boros used every bit of his build to his advantage, pinning her against the wall, assaulting her with rough and unskilled kisses. She found herself frozen with panic, unable to invoke any defensive notion she thought she possessed. His callused palms groped her savagely and she found herself wondering how he could find satisfaction in her naked fear.

Sansa was naïve to certain realities her private education failed to elucidate, but she was well versed in perception, schooled to anticipate a man’s needs or desires before he could think to name them. She felt herself detach, resigning herself to the reality that she was utterly powerless to the man grunting and grinding against her. She pictured herself a forest lass, gown of yellow, crown of grass, and slipped into fantasy. She had almost stolen completely away when a faint whine followed by an insistent scraping caught her attention. For all of his supposed training and expertise, Boros failed to notice the alarm being raised from the hall, and the silent, deadly approach of Sandor Clegane went unnoticed.

Sansa abandoned fantasy and locked eyes with the man whose timing never ceased to amaze her. Sandor’s powerful arms snaked around Boros’ neck, glistening with the sweat of his efforts, grey eyes never straying from hers. She took the ferocity from his gaze and steeled herself and she watched the light fade from Boros’ eyes as he greedily gulped his last breath.

Sandor tossed the lifeless body aside and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her to her feet. He didn’t speak, but he let his eyes travel over her, pulling her wrists out to assess her for wounds. Sansa shook her head, telling him she was unharmed, and let her arms wind around his neck. He pulled her up by her legs, carrying her tight against his chest. They walked back in silence, tears rolling down her cheeks, and he insisted on carrying her to her room in the lake house, pressing his lips to her forehead before he gently deposited her into her unmade bed. Words failed her as he fixed his concerned gaze upon her. She noticed for the first time his faithful shadow, Stranger, proudly seated at his master’s feet.

“Get a bath and see to those bruises in the morning.” His fingers skimmed the hollow of her throat, tracing her clenched jaw before gently cupping her cheek. She leaned into him, desperate for his gentle touch. “For now, just try to sleep.”

Sansa had felt like she was outside of her body then, looking down at the man who had defended her with what seemed like little effort or thought to his own consequence. She never asked what happened to Boros or how his disappearance was explained, but for the first time in a long time, she began to feel as if she wasn’t so alone.

So now she stood before him on the balcony, bruises from that horrible night beginning to fade, unsure what to do or say. Sandor took a long drag from the bottle in his hands and motioned for Sansa to join him on the deck chair. His long legs were planted on either side and his head rolled bonelessly in his inebriated state. She hesitated, her body moving toward him, but her hand clutching to the railing uncertain of the look she found on his face. She had become so accustomed to anger or annoyance playing across his harsh features, but now he looked almost content.

“I’ll not hurt you, little bird.” He patted the cushion in front of him, a gentle demand. She loosened her grip on the railing and drifted to him, placing herself in front of him. He pulled her toward his chest, a large hand cupping her shoulder gently, and she found her head falling instinctively against him. He offered her the wine, settling his strong arms on her back and her leg. She drank deeply, looking for the wash of warmth and numbness that she knew drink would bring. She curled the bottle into the space between them, turning her face into his chest. His warmth enveloped her and she felt at ease. The weight of the past few years slipped off her shoulders and she felt the tears running down her cheeks before she even thought to keep them in. She feared his reproach, certain he would see her emotions as a sign of weakness, but he just ran his hand over her hair, balling his fist in her locks, pressing her to him. She cried for her lost family, her lost innocence, and for the deep sadness she felt radiating from the man beneath her.

Sansa’s eyes closed when she felt his lips graze her forehead. She raised her watery eyes and found him intently looking to her. He plucked the bottle from her hands, tipping his head back before raising it to her lips. He poured the last slosh of the strong red through her parted lips and kissed away the drop that ran down her chin. The bottle fell to the floor with a deep thud and his hands were free to caress her cheeks and sweep her hair away from her swollen eyes. She had rarely looked at him and received anything but a steely, unwavering gaze. Occasionally, she noted a faint glint of humor or mischief, but since her father’s death, he had mostly regarded her with a quiet solemnity. He had been harsh with her at times, but she knew deep down he was always bracing her for the cruelty that lay ahead. He was offering her advice, even when dressed like an admonishment, and she realized as his _soft_ grey eyes fell upon her lips that he was trying as best he could to protect her.

Sansa felt her hand drift to his puckered cheek. Sandor had never mentioned the scars to her after that first night he had been charged with seeing her safely home, but she knew they caused him a great deal of pain and anger. He didn’t pull away from her touch, he leaned in. Sansa turned herself to face him, her breasts pressed against him, tears still silently streaming down her cheeks. He fisted her hair, giving her locks a slight tug. He seemed to consider her for a moment, his fingers scratching her scalp gently while his thumbs traced the soft skin of her jaw. A soft sigh escaped her as he kissed away the tracks of her tears. She felt herself melt into his touch, her hands gently steering him to her lips.

Sandor and Sansa kissed lazily, taking comfort from each other’s arms. She wondered how she should react if he tried to deepen the kiss, how far she was willing to take this intimacy, knowing he could overpower her at any moment. He never pushed, his mouth breaking from hers only to kiss away fresh tears or chase his thumb’s soft caress with the warmth of his lips. She was soft and pliable in his arms, her weariness slowing her lips and soon he covered her cheek with his silent affection and she found herself drifting to sleep with her face pressed against his. She never felt him wake her, never even flicked her eyes open, as he carried her through two of the compound’s houses to get to her room. She felt him lower her to the bed, his body not far behind, wrapping her in the soft blankets piled up on her bed. When she woke with the first rays of light, he was gone, and her heart broke at the sight of the empty bed. He had draped his jacket around her shoulders and she pulled it close to her face, breathing in the scent of his sweat, the forest, and Stranger and drifted back to sleep.

That morning, she felt as if she were glowing when he came to collect her for the day’s meetings that generally led to Joffrey shaming her in some way. When the Hound came knocking at her door, she usually felt a knot of dread as she prepared herself for the unknown cruelty that typically awaited her, today she felt as if her skin was on fire. She knew her face and neck were glowing a deep pink when he knocked twice and entered without invitation. He met her with a smile that crinkled his eyes in a way that made her heart race; he was the first man that had ever looked at her with what she didn’t dare call love, but she knew he cared for her and she was falling for him.

He stepped into the room, closing the door and latching it behind him, making her heart race with anticipation.  He looked almost shy as he took his face in her hands and kissed her, her hands instinctively clutching the collar of his blue shirt. He gently traced his tongue over her lips and she parted to him, letting out a soft moan into his mouth. When he pulled away, she felt herself chasing his kiss, and he pressed his forehead against hers. “Little bird,” he murmured taking her lips once more before prying himself away and schooling his face into his usual apathetic gaze. But she knew how to read him better now and saw the way his lip curled up ever so slightly and his eyes were bright as he slid his jacket she had draped over her shoulders and over his own broad frame. She felt bold and so she leaned into his chest, her hands still anchored to his collar, and breathed him in. He looked pained as he took her hand gently in his, dragging her knuckles gently over his lips.  “There’s word of trouble brewing for our mutual friends, so Joff has called a family meeting.” Sansa rolled her eyes at either of them being included in their family. Sandor smirked at her lazy defiance. “Come on. Let’s go see what this little shit has in store for us today.”

Sandor kept her hand wrapped in hers until he unbarred the door and they needed to play their parts to the world. Sansa found her mask and they walked slightly out of sync, his lead seeming to drag her along, but she felt as though he was always reaching for her.


	9. Chapter 9

Sandor rolled his weight off Sansa, relaxing onto his elbow, appraising her with a gaze she couldn’t quite define. His fingers tentatively traced her collarbone, studying her as if at any moment she would bat his touch away or disappear as she often did when his dreams would end. His face revealed a vulnerability she never expected. Sansa tried to soften her serious expression, relaxing her mouth into a smile to reassure him that she had wanted him, still wanted him, while wrapping her head around the consequences of her actions. She had very quickly and without any hesitation made a move that meant she would need to escape Petyr and her current situation, a dream she never dared to think could come to fruition. Sansa had assumed the man before her would simply lay down at her feet and pledge to take her away and keep her safe. It belatedly occurred to her that he possibly did not want to upend his life for her benefit, the girl who had refused his offer once before. She had given away what Petyr considered to be her most valuable asset and not to him. Petyr would never forgive her, and she didn’t allow herself to ponder what sort of punishment he would issue to fit her crime.

Sansa pressed her palm to Sandor’s chest and locked her wide blue gaze on his. She chewed on her lip in contemplation, turning over questions she hadn’t yet mustered the courage to speak. Closing her eyes, she willed her frantic heart to still in her chest as the warmth of his body radiated through her. He pressed his face into the soft slope of her neck, her hands drifting lazily to his hair. She smiled to herself, allowing herself a quiet victory over how easily she had negated Petyr’s power. Surely, she had endangered herself, compromising the value he had placed on her, but she had never felt such empowerment in her own skin. She had taken power over her body, herself, and upset everything Petyr had conditioned her to protect. 

“I swear I didn’t expect _this_ when I came here.” Sandor’s voice was muffled against her bare skin, his words brushing away the doubts that crowded her mind. His hands skimmed her hips, her legs, the swell of her breasts and she closed her eyes and let his touch possess her. He slid down, trailing lazy kisses in his wake, resting his head against her stomach. “I never thought I’d find you again.” After tracing her hip with his mouth, he pulled back, his hands framing her delicate waist. Dragging his rough thumbs across her skin, he looked at her as if he was trying to uncover something, some secret buried deep in the lines that had begun to crease at the edges of her eyes and around her mouth. “You aren’t real, are you? Are you just another dream I’ll wake up from too soon, little bird?”

“I’m real.” Her response came like a reflex. Sansa felt her stomach flip as he voiced her own uncertainty, the feeling that gripped her akin to the sensation of falling awake. And she felt truly awake for the first time in years. Sansa pressed a soft kiss unto his wrist, nuzzling her face against his forearm. He was so different now, so at ease. His smiles came freely and his affection toward her seemed to no longer confuse or pain him. Over the years, she had missed him so completely, her single oasis of happiness found when she allowed herself to drift away into the long-gone moments they had shared. She regretted being such a fool and allowing his one moment of uncharacteristic and crushing weakness rattle her trust in him. “Why didn’t you make me leave with you, that night of the raid?” It wasn’t meant to sound accusatory, but her mind always seemed to wander off and question how different her situation would be now if he had simply insisted. Would they have settled somewhere happily? Would he have endangered her by being the drunken fool he used to be?

“You weren’t mine to take, Sansa.” He met her with an honest stare, shrugging his shoulders. “That was my rock bottom. I came to you for something I still don’t even really understand. I know I must have frightened you. I was so _depressed_ …” He was practically whispering, and his eyes closed, the confession slipping past his lips. “I am so sorry for all of it, but looking back, I don’t know that I truly could have kept you safe in the state I was in. There’s a reason your sister left me for dead after that bar fight, you know.” He opened his steel grey eyes again, pressing his lips to the soft skin between her navel and her sex. She arched into his touch, feeling at once assured of his need for her and his regrets for the past quieting her own fears. She let her fingers slide through his short hair, tracing over the edges of his scars, letting her hands convey the love she did not have the courage to speak. “I was infatuated with your innocence and your blind acceptance of me. I felt--still feel, like you are the only one who has ever pierced my armor, and I yours. Your song was not mine to take then, not without you wanting to give it to me.”

“Not everyone has felt that way.” A wave of anger washed over her and she rolled out from under his embrace to the cold side of the bed. He wasn’t ready to give her up that easily, pressing himself into her back, pressing a reassuring hand against her stomach. She knew she would have to answer to him now, as he had bared himself so honestly, and she knew he would expect the same in return. He always had.

“Little bird,” his voice a rumble that tickled her delicate skin, rewarding him with a soft giggle as she allowed him to pull her out of her head. “Who is it you call father?”

Sansa knew revealing Petyr was dangerous—she was still within his confinement and revealing his true intentions and actions with her would only anger Sandor. The three of them had never interacted in the capital, but she knew how he would feel about a man like Petyr, the man that had all but sold his innocent little bird into prostitution.

His grey eyes were solemn when he raised his gaze to meet hers. She took in a sharp breath, forcing herself to suffer the intensity of his gaze. Sansa knew that the man before her was dangerous, knew that he had taken life without hesitation, and she found herself marveling at the gentle touch those hands bestowed upon her. Sansa knew that what came next both freed and endangered her; her confession would compromise the comfortable disguise she found in Alayne Stone, leaving only Sansa Stark, the lost heiress of the north.

“My mother had always considered Petyr a close friend,” Sansa began, his grip upon her tightening at the mere recognition of the name. “He approached me as a trusted friend, someone who seemed invested in my well-being.” A bitter laugh seemed to underscore the naivety she recognized, fat tears rolling down her cheeks as she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “He was her oldest friend, a character in every story of her youth, and I trusted that he would protect me.” Sandor winced, knowing that the man she had blind faith in was a man he had known to be little more than a pimp. His eyes darkened as he imagined her under Baelish’s thumb, selling herself under his lecherous persuasion. The man Sandor used to be would have set out for blood without hesitation; it took every bit of learned patience to hear her out.  “Petyr brought me here, letting everyone think that I was his daughter from some insignificant summer fling, his bastard daughter Alayne.” A practiced smile curved her lips and she dropped the evidence of her education as she slipped into the character she had so deftly cultivated. “He never made me sleep with anyone like he does the other girls, but as I got older, became more like the woman he knew as my mother, he got bolder with his _attentions_ toward me.” Her emphasis resonated with him and she paused to gauge his reaction. Sandor merely clenched his jaw and nodded for her to go on. “He is planning to sell my virginity to a millionaire that frequents The Vale. Harry.” Her watery blue eyes rolled back into her head. “Harry the Heir, Harry the developer who owns most of this Gods forsaken mountain, who drinks himself blind and gropes every woman who crosses his path. He comes to see me sing most nights and has apparently offered Petyr a small fortune for my first time.” Sansa gave him a shy smile, her eyes bright in some twisted light of victory. “Not that that’s _ever_ going to happen now.”

Sandor merely frowned, the dark satisfaction she derived from their coupling lost on him. He pulled her tighter into his embrace, a murderous rage simmering below his practiced facade. “How much would I owe Littlefucker for your gift that wasn’t his to give?”

 “If I am to trust what he told me and what the contract in his office says, twenty five thousand dollars.” She rolled her eyes at the absurdity of it all and he merely dug his fingers into her hips possessively in response. “I’m not sure I’m worth that much, but Petyr has promised to take me as his own lover after Harry had the first go, contented that a life with me at his beck and call was worth more than my maidenhead.”

Sansa lowered her eyes, suddenly feeling insecure about the position she had been in up until Sandor found his way back into her life. His expression remained serious, never disgusted or judging as she had feared, and he scooted himself up to be closer to her face. Hovering over her chest, he sensed her need for reassurance and ran his fingers along her neck and face. His touch pulled her out of the fog of her uncertainty. His eyes scanned her room, tracing every beam and corner. Sandor cursed his now glaring oversight. He had never considered what now seemed so obvious, that Petyr could be surveilling his precious charge, even remotely. “How difficult will it be for me to take you away from here?”

 “There are a few guards keeping an eye on things, but I have it better than most and honestly the girls here are not treated badly for the most part.”

Sandor snorted bitterly at that, her statement imbued with impossible confidence. He had seen his fair share of abused and mistreated women in his miserable life to think that any of the women under Baelish’s employ were more than commodities, a means to lucrative ends for the greedy little prick.

She fell silent for a moment, her hand bracing her forehead as she considered her options. “Petyr is away to the capital for a week, but I fear if we don’t put him down, he will never let me rest.”

Sandor nodded, smoothing her hair away from her face and placed a kiss on her lips. “Let me worry about that, little bird. What of guards or security? Surely he has some detail on you especially while he’s away.”

Sansa cocked her head as if evaluating the framework of her imprisonment for the first time. “Lothor Brune is his second in command. He’ll do daily check-in’s with the girls and as far as security goes, he generally just has a few guys walk the halls every hour and the others are sent to guard the girls at the club.” She considered her situation as he must be seeing it and offered, “Lothor will be the greatest obstacle. He’s loyal because Petyr pays and while he’s been kind to me, I’m sure he knows I hold a certain value to the man that pays him.” She paused, considering the reality of flight, recalling that becoming Alayne meant that she had been forced to forfeit any evidence of her former self. “Petyr has kept anything that preserves my identity as Sansa Stark, as dangerous as it may be to be her.”

He raised his eyebrows at that, knowing how wanted she would be in the world by certain lingering Lannister powers or enemies of her northern kin. “We will have the best luck in Essos. There’s far less interest in seeking the princess of the north in the free cities.” He tipped her chin up, sensing her disappointment in leaving the country she knew. “It doesn’t have to be forever, but it has to be for right now. I am a capable man but I am no army. I can’t protect you from everyone.” His gaze was soft when it found her wide eyes and he stroked her cheek reassuringly. “I have a considerable amount of money saved, I’ve hardly spent anything I’ve ever made, and I have some connections that could set us up in Pentos or Mereen or some other city of summer. And gods, but I could spend the rest of my days kissing the ocean from your skin.” Sandor buried his face in the hair gathered at the nape of her neck, grazing her skin with his teeth. “But I’ll not take you anywhere you don’t wish to go, you’ll not be a captive again.” He tightened his grip on her chin to emphasize his promise to her. “So, what is it my little bird wants?”

“ _Your_ little bird?”

“Aye, _my_ little bird.” Sandor grinned playfully, leaning in to nibble gently on her bottom lip, caging her in the tangle of his strong limbs. He became aware suddenly of how possessive he was acting and pulled back from her a bit. Sansa was flushed and smiling, but he couldn’t help but worry how many men in her life had felt entitled to her.  “If you’ll have an old man like me, that is. If you just want my help, I would make the connections for you, get you where you need to go.” She smiled sweetly at him, her hands pushing his shaggy black hair away from his forehead. She pinched a few locks, leaning closer to him as if inspecting. She let out a sigh and let out a soft _tsk_. He narrowed his eyes at her, lifting his chin from her chest. “What?”

“Well, you are _greyer_ than I remember.” Sansa shook her head, a playful smile tugging at her lips, though she tried to keep a serious tone. “And it is such a pity, you have such a magnificent cock!” She bubbled with laughter then and he pinned her arms above her on the bed. She wriggled beneath him in vain, stilling when she noted that her amusement was not reflected in his face. Sansa had let Alayne slip for a brief moment.

“I don’t need much, _Sansa_.” Sandor’s grip loosened, his hands sliding over hers, pressing his fingers between her delicate digits. “I just need to hear it once, that this is what you want. I don’t want you indebted to me or feeling obligated to be with me. It would level me if you told me to fuck off now, but I would.” _I’ll probably drink myself to death, but I’d fuck off_ , he added to himself.

It was all she didn’t know she needed to hear. What use was Alayne when there was a formidable man who wished to bring her back to life. Sansa tugged on his hands, pulling him into her arms, wrapping her legs around him. She could be possessive too, and where words and confessions may have eluded her, she chose action. Brushing her lips to his, she whispered her own vow into his mouth. “I would find you and kill you myself if you ever left me behind again, Sandor Clegane.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Go on, open it.” He shook the key ring at her again, his hand outstretched before her face. It hadn’t taken much convincing to get her away from The Vale for the night. With no shows to perform, no shifts at the bar, she was delighted at the prospect of just being herself for a change, away from the prying eyes of Petyr’s henchmen.

“What’s inside?” Sansa eyed his weathered grey door wearily. “Sandor, I don’t really like surprises.”

“Not a _what_ , little bird. Who.”

“I like that even less.” Sansa was looking at the keys, thoroughly unamused. He winked at her, forcing the keys into her palm and she sighed her defeat. Turning the bolt lock, she slowly pushed the door open, rousing one elderly pit bull who began to dance for his old friend like a puppy. “Stranger!” She fell to her knees, Stranger’s long tongue sweeping up the girl’s face and neck. He had completely embraced Sansa, grunting his happy little grunts, wagging his scrawny little rat tail.

“Such a slut, Stranger.” Sandor tsked playfully, scratching the dog between its velvety ears.

“I didn’t want to ask if he was still around, but I’m so glad you still have him.” Sansa was really smiling, a rare glimpse of true happiness she had long learned to bury. He leaned forward onto his knees, wrapping his arms around her and the dog, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You are not the man I used to know. Not so different, mind you, but not the same.”

“Aye, and I left a girl and found a woman.” Sandor nipped at her earlobe playfully. “At least now I don’t have to feel like such a perverted old man.”

Sansa gently pushed Stranger off her lap, turning to face Sandor. She cast a soft gaze over his face, her hands cupping his jaw, as she studied him. Sansa smiled, not the broad joyful smile from a few moments past, but a rather bittersweet smile instead.

“You know I’ve never thought of you like that, right?” Sansa ran her hands over his arms that had wrapped around her waist. “I know you’re older than me, and I’m not bothered by it, but I never felt like you were taking advantage of me back then.”

“What do you call a thirty-year-old man kissing a fourteen-year-old girl?”

“That night on the balcony,” Sansa’s voice sounded airy and distant. “I’ve never felt so utterly loved and protected as I did that night.” She balled her fists in his shirt, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “If that night was wrong or somehow makes you a bad man, what does that make guys like Boros? Gregor?” Sandor opened his mouth to protest, but Sansa pulled him into a kiss. “I know what it’s like to be made into a man’s prey.” She slowly unclenched her tiny fists, moving her hands over the rumpled fabric she left in her wake. A small smile played on her lips and she wound her arms around his neck. “Now, I demand a lazy afternoon of terrible television and snuggling on the couch.”

“Aye, woman, you’ll have your snuggles.” With a groan and a hiss of pain, Sandor lifted them off the floor. Sansa giggled as he plopped her down on the deep grey couch, Stranger quickly hopped up, forcing himself between the girl and the back of the couch. Sansa pulled the grumbling grey puddle of dog into her arms. Sandor watched as the little bird and his best friend fell asleep tangled up in one another. He couldn’t really wrap his mind around everything that had transpired in the past day, let alone the vivid flashes of her milky skin and hurried breathing that played themselves out everytime he closed his eyes. But the hair was all wrong. What he wouldn’t give to run his hair through Sansa’s fiery locks. It still took his brain a moment to calculate that the dark haired girl and his little bird were truly one in the same. But one day, as he had with the Hound, Sansa would be able to bury Alayne.

Sandor leaned over the back of the couch, reaching his massive palm to cup her slender neck. He let his right thumb drag over the delicate line of her jawbone, his whole body warmed by the way she slackened to his touch. He would never know what ungodly forces saw the two of them fit to be together, but he would do anything, give anything, to retain the implicit trust she had in him. Heaving a deep sigh, Sandor rose from Sansa’s side. As he walked to the fridge in the corner of his tiny kitchen, every bit of his muscle memory told him that upon opening that door, he’d be rewarded with an ice cold beer. He sighed, inventorying the meager offerings inside the outdated, avocado colored ice box. He settled on a glass of orange juice. _Water, water, everywhere,_ he thought bitterly. _And not a buggering drop to drink._

Sandor had his temptations, like anyone else, in the years since his recovery. He had suffered a lone relapse into drunkenness the night he learned Gregor died in a shootout at the capital, his entire core of self-definition turning into a grey puff of smoke and disappearing from him. What was there to live for if not killing his brother? He’d lost the girl. Word of Sansa Stark slowed to a silence, lost amidst the greater changes happening in his war-ravaged country. So, he drowned himself in cheap booze, blubbering drunkenly to himself and throwing fierce punches at anyone who dared speak up to him. He woke the next day, sicker than he felt he had ever been, and certain that he was reborn. And nothing made him want to drink less.

That was, of course, until his past came screaming back to him, and now he didn’t have a fucking clue what to do. And uncertainty, more than anything, gave him thirst. He fell into the spindle legged chair at the small table near the door with a thud. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Without a second thought, he dialed the Elder Brother, his sponsor from the Quiet Isles Clinic. The older man always picked up, usually before the third ring, and Sandor knew that he would know exactly what to say to vanquish that thirst.

“What past transgression are we digging up today, brother?” The man on the other end of the line sounded kindly amused, having worn this path with Sandor many times. “Whose bones rattle today, Gravedigger?”

“The girl.” Sandor’s confessions had been mainly metaphoric in nature, though Sandor was confident the man whose counsel he sought knew not only the Hound, but the lost wolf of Winterfell, as well. He heard EB click his tongue and sigh. _He’s probably sick of talking about her_ , Sandor thought.

“Sandor, we’ve been over this. If the Gods see fit for you two to meet again--“

“She’s in my apartment, we slept together.” Sandor hadn’t meant to lead with that, but it felt good to say it to someone. “She’s been in the Eyrie the whole time.”

“Seven hells,” EB hissed. He grew silent for a long moment before regaining his stern, advisory tone. “This changes everything. I suppose…you’ll be leaving.”

“Aye, it does.” Sandor said, and then quickly, “I will.”

EB was nodding in silence, Sandor could see it in his mind. The man had a quiet way of untangling knots in his thoughts, his head bobbing mechanically as he computed each situation’s unique permutations. He knew the man’s anxious fingers would be worrying his lips with gentle, rhythmic tugs. The two had been over this particular scenario before. Sandor would not let Sansa go again, even if it meant putting them both in danger and giving up whatever semblance of peace he had found since leaving the Lannister’s service.

“Let’s meet an hour before group. We clearly have much to discuss.” It was Sandor’s turn to nod silently, before ending the call. He dragged his rough palms over his stubbled face. Exhaustion had crept over him, the peak of his manic excitement from the past day crashing now that he felt they were relatively safe. Sandor didn’t remember pressing his forehead against the cool laminate of the old table nor did he remember closing his eyes and falling asleep. But somewhere through the ether of his shallow dreams some time later, he felt a warm touch caressing the nape of his neck and a soft voice beckoning him back from the void.

 

Sansa woke with a pang of dread and panic at the unfamiliar surroundings and the grey mass loudly snoring beside her. She scrubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand before seeking out the time. It was some hours later than when they arrived, the street lights casting a pale yellow haze over the darkened room. A quick scan of the small kitchen revealed the massive form of her…well, she didn’t quite know what to call him. Companion seemed to informal and friend too inadequate, but she wasn’t entirely sure how to reconcile the sudden emotional shift Sandor’s reappearance in her life triggered. For the first time in a long time, someone demanded _Sansa_ , encouraging her to abandon both her prison and her jailer.

Sansa rubbed Stranger’s velvety head, a mere consolation for leaving his side, a disappointed sigh escaping him as he plopped fully onto the couch. Alone and without distraction, Sansa was truly able to take in Sandor’s apartment. He lived as spartanly as she suspected, his amenities comfortable but practical. At first glance, his nearly wall-less home seemed impersonal, but as she drifted around the shelves and cases that housed his records and books, she found pieces of him everywhere. To her surprise, he possessed a rather large collection of books, mostly nonfiction historical texts. But scattered amidst the practical tomes and biographical works, she spotted books of prose and philosophy. Sansa chided herself for thinking so little of him, but experience had taught her that hired guns wanted for manners and intellect. She conceded that on every count, Sandor seemed the exception to the rule.   

Smiling to herself, she drifted around the room. Her slender hands skimmed over the coarse fabric of a vintage radio speaker, the spotless face of a large square clock, a small wooden dog assembled from intricate joinery. And then Sansa found a piece of herself tucked away amongst his things. She reached out to the familiar totem, a silver direwolf she had pilfered from her family home when she moved to the capital. Looking back, her parents would likely have given her the piece, but she enjoyed knowing that it was safely tucked in the drawer of her end table. A piece of home only for her. But one day her hand was rummaging through the drawer for something and immediately noticed its absence. Sansa was less affected by the violation of her privacy, furious with herself for losing something so precious. Seeing it safe on Sandor’s shelves made her smile, not even remotely angry at his petty theft. He had carried her with him all along it seemed and she rather enjoyed the thought of symbolically traveling with him all these years. After all, how often did she wrap his jacket around herself and think of him?

Radiating warmth and a swell of newly stoked affection for the man slumped awkwardly over the small table, Sansa came to his side, moving her delicate touch over the lines of his face. His scarred side was turned up, silvery ripples of skin that had once made Sansa uncomfortable, now merely stood as testament to the man’s strength and resolve. As he breathed deep and rhythmically, Sansa watched his lean and muscular frame heave and contract. And _he_ wanted _her_. This impressive and intimidating modern warrior was soft and pliable under her touch, vulnerable under her gaze. And in that moment, her fingers twining themselves in the soft black hair that began to curl at the nape of his neck, she knew that she could never want another man.

“Sandor,” she whispered against his jaw, pressing her lips gently against the web of cruelty that marred his face and neck. “Sandor, wake up. Come back to me.”

He stretched his long arms against the length of the table, his grey eyes looking confused in the first moment he opened them, before a smile reached his gaze as he took her in. A strong arm wound around her waist, pulling her into his lap. He nudged her chin up with his nose, returning the same kiss she had just given him, satisfied by the contented sigh that left her lips.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep, have you been up long?” Sandor’s hands rubbed up her back, down her thighs, his every touch nudging her closer and closer to him.

“No,” Sansa replied, her voice thick in her mouth, every bit of her thrumming with the electricity conducted through his touch. Sansa knew what it was to be wanted, to be leered at by men who desired her body, but she knew to them she would merely be a means to an end. Sure, Petyr coveted her, but his intentions were clouded by his youthful infatuation for Sansa’s mother. He had used his familiarity to cultivate an imbalance of power in his favor, rendering her little more than his possession. Sandor only wanted that which she would gladly give, and she would give him everything. “I just woke up myself. Stranger makes an excellent bed warmer.”

Sandor chuckled against her shoulder the vibration of his voice seemed to pass through her. “He always took to you.” He turned his face up to her, a massive hand spanning the back of her head, gently raking his fingers through her hair. “He always knew who our true master was.”

Sansa knew herself well enough to feel that she was blushing fiercely, leveled by the want she recognized in his eyes and the way her body burned and ached under his touch. She wanted to tell him that he would never be her dog, that she would never seek ownership or control over him. She wanted to confess that she would gladly spend the rest of their lives proving herself worthy of his trust and affection. No words she knew would ever suffice, so instead, she resolved to repay his kindness and protection with her heart and her love.

They stared at each other in the low light coming in from the streets, the faint rush of cars driving by the only indication that the world was still alive and moving around them. Beat by beat, breath by breath, they fell into one another. Their kisses were deep and unhurried. Though she would have to return to the Vale to keep up her façade until they could make their escape, there was no denying what had happened between them was irreversible and they would both gladly forfeit their lives than go without.

Sansa found her hands clutching at his shoulders, exploring the deep dips of his prominent collar bones, tracing the outlines of healed wounds she felt as she let her hands drift under his shirt, desperate for the warmth of his bare skin. Sandor pushed the chair away from the table, pivoting her gently by her hips so she was facing him, her long legs wrapped around him. He broke away from the dizzying kiss to take her in, maddened by her swollen lips, parted with breathy anticipation. He held her gaze as he let his fingers slide under her sweater, pressing his palms against the taut plane of her stomach. Sansa’s eyes softened, her heavy lids falling slightly as he traced the soft swell of her breasts. Though she had always been tall, Sansa felt so entirely small and consumed by the hands that seemed to envelop her as he dragged his thumbs over her nipples, a moan sounding from deep in her throat. Sandor smirked, the upward drift of his hands forcing her arms up over her head as he rolled the sweater over her head, dropping it to the floor.

“Little bird.” The endearment came out in a breathy rasp as his hands returned to their gentle explorations, each discovery of what brought her pleasure committed to his memory. Sandor shook his head at her, his hands taking hold of her hips with a possessive squeeze. “I’m not sure I deserve you, but if you let me, I would be so good to you.” He began rocking her against him, his mouth replacing his curious touch, savoring the salt of her skin. The position she found herself in was all too familiar in her meetings with Petyr and she had always felt violated and sick under his attentions. The difference, she knew now, was that Sandor’s touch was intended to please _her_ , a boyish grin splitting his face whenever she moaned or shuttered against him. Sansa found herself moving with him, her need of him, for him, mounting with every nip of her flesh.

“I want no one else,” Sansa whispered against his ear. “Only you can have me.” Balling her fists in his hair, she tugged him firmly to face her, her mouth capturing his with an intensity she didn’t know she possessed. Biting his lower lip, satisfied with the growl he issued into her mouth, she said in a voice so low and sultry she didn’t recognize as her own, “take me to bed, Sandor.”

A man of action recognized an order when he heard one. Gripping her thighs, he raised their tangled bodies from the chair and carried her the short distance to his bedroom. His enormous bed, the first in his life he ever fit him comfortably, occupied most of the space and even in the dark he knew when to playfully push her away. She giggled as she hit the mattress, her breasts bobbing, her hair spilling across her bare shoulders as she landed. He felt his self-control slipping away, chased by her tiny gasps of surprise and desire as he quickly removed her jeans, pleased to find her bare beneath.

Sansa’s hands were upon him, dragging his shirt over his head, a hand gripping the waist of his pants. Soft fingers brushed against his cock, taking him by surprise, his release suddenly and dangerously tangible. He gave her shoulders a gentle push, stepping back to remove the last of his clothing, his eyes feasting on the paragon of beauty laid out before him. She was restless, her hands tracing over her skin, a poor substitute for his touch. The sight of his bare form before her drove her hand down over her stomach, a desperate attempt to satisfy the desire that left her warm and wet and wanting.

“Are you ready for me, little bird?” He wrapped his hands around her knees, kneeling between her, his own hand stroking over himself. Sansa nodded, her lip trapped between her teeth, muffling the moans that accompanied the disappearance of her slender fingers as she pushed them inside herself. Sandor had never been a patient man, valuing economy of movement and efficiency above all. But as he pushed against her, encouraged by the heat of her arousal and the way she raised her hips to bring him inside of her, he never wanted this feeling to end.

When Sansa’s hand began to drift away, Sandor trapped it in his own, returning to it’s original task, his fingers pressing against hers. The way she clenched around him, the way she moaned his name, the way she pulled him deeper with her heels was everything. The world dropped away and all he knew was the all-consuming pleasure of melting into Sansa Stark.


	11. Chapter 11

“I snooped around a bit while you were sleeping,” Sansa confessed into his chest, his hand tracing lazy lines down the curve of her back. Sleep seemed to evade them, sustained by a need to probe the depths of the newfound intimacy that came so easy in the aftermath of their passion. “I didn’t rummage through drawers or anything, just kind of poked around your shelves and your things.”

Sandor cocked a brow at her, grinning as he reached down and patted her ass. “Bad girl,” he admonished playfully, stealing a kiss before she swatted him away. “I makes no difference to me, I don’t have anything to hide.”

“Are you sure about that?” It was her turn to discipline, flicking her finger against his nipple. He winced, bringing a protective hand to his chest, bracing for the next wave of assault. “I found something that belongs to me. Something I thought lost forever.” Sansa watched his brow furrow, mentally scrolling through the inventory of his modest possessions. She saw the moment he realized what exactly she meant, and he turned his gaze away as he flushed with embarrassment.

“I shouldn’t have taken it,” he offered after a beat, his face serious as he turned back to her. “I was a desperate fool and a drunk. I knew I couldn’t have you, but I wanted a piece of you to take when I left.” Sandor combed his hand through her hair, tracing her the line of her fine cheek bones on every downward stroke. “Gods I was a mess over you back then, Sansa.”

She pressed a kiss into his chest, trying to memorize the scent that enveloped her. “I didn’t know what I felt back then, and I certainly didn’t know anything about men or love.” She pressed, leaning in close to his face. “But I knew I could trust you, I knew you felt as drawn to me as I did to you, but I never feared it. And it wasn’t until you were gone that I could even start to understand what I felt for you.” He watched as her eyes darkened, unshed tears muddling her vision. “And when I got word that you were likely dead, it was so easy for me to detach and hide away as Alayne.”

He wrapped her in a tight embrace, kissing away the sadness that choked her voice. Much of his recovery had been unraveling the tangle of emotions he felt for her over the years, threaded with guilt and shame. It seemed unlikely to him that she would ever reciprocate his feelings, having convinced himself that as she grew older she would come to resent the man that gained her trust and stole her first kisses. But they had meant something to each other, sharing some small comfort over their mutual insignificance.

“I will take you away from here,” Sandor vowed solemnly, threading his hands through her hair. “I will keep you safe. I will kill Petyr fucking Baelish with my bare hands if I need to. And gods be damned, you will never be _Alayne_ _Stone_ again.”

 

 

Sandor had been reluctant to return Sansa to The Vale, but without an exit strategy, her absence would bring them more trouble than he was willing to take on. She had lingered as long as she could, her hands clutching at his collar as he aimed to consume her. They parted flushed, confirming their plan to maintain a connection while keeping her below the suspicion of Petyr’s men. He promised to return to her after his meeting with Elder Brother, planning to fade into the scenery of the club as she performed for the patrons of The Vale. When the rounds had ended and all thought the songbird tucked away, Sandor would come for her in the night, adamant that he would not let her alone again.

“I’ll sing for you at The Moondoor,” she purred into his ear, nipping at his neck before finally tearing herself away from him. “Only you.”

Sandor pushed at her gently, a wide smile lighting his flushed face. “Get out of here before I steal you again.” He was half tempted to gun it, to defy his better judgement and take her across the Narrow Sea with little more than his good intentions. Sansa squeezed his thigh playfully before slinking out the door of his car and into the swell of pedestrian traffic on the busy street. Groaning in frustration at his sudden loss, he began to navigate his way through the lot, parking along the windowless side of The Vale he had parked at every week since attending his group meetings.

The Sept was a plain stone building, embellished with a solitary stained-glass porthole at the apex of the single spire in the shape of the seven. The rounded oak doors were a familiar gate he had to pass in the ritual of his absolution and he felt a certain accomplishment knowing this was his final visit. The Elder Brother, whose true name Sandor realized he never learned, held counsel in a small undecorated room along the wall behind the imposing statues of The Seven. Sandor had never been a man of faith, his life experiences inspiring more belief in the Seven Hells than the deities that reigned supreme. EB had agreed to leave theology at the door, feeling his own devotion could only guide those willing to seek the pat of piety.

Sandor rapped against the open door which swung open without invitation. EB looked up at him over the square rims of his reading glasses, a newspaper folded against his crossed knees. The holy man flopped the day’s crossword on the simple end table, rubbing his hands together in an anxious greeting.

“Sandor,” the man greeted with a nod, a wrinkled hand inviting him to sit in the folding metal chair opposite him. Sandor pushed the door closed behind him, knowing what came next would be best kept between them, and lowered himself into the familiar role of repentant.

“Brother.”

EB sighed, his legs falling open and relaxed, his clasped hands hanging between his knees as he leaned into the space between them. He stared into Sandor’s open and unyielding gaze for a long moment before nodding solemnly, reaching under his own chair. The older man’s hands fiddled with something for a moment before producing a beige envelope. He tapped the corner against his palm, never dropping his piercing gaze, weighing the silence of their final meeting.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the man extended the parcel to Sandor, who tried not to seem too eager and ungrateful as he nearly snatched the documents away. EB didn’t need to say what was inside; their intimate sessions had revealed nearly as much about Sandor as it had the holy man. Sandor knew the monk still had his connections from his abandoned life as a hired man.

“I don’t know if I could ever thank you properly,” Sandor offered, breaking the long silence, nodding to the gift in his hands. That earned Sandor a true smile from the man, who knew all too well the value of disappearing.

“Seeing how you’ve grown and changed all these years is enough for me, Sandor.” EB was a large man, not quite as imposing as Sandor, but closer than most and the hand that grabbed his forearm was firm and protective. Fatherly. “It brings me selfish pleasure to know that you have a second chance at happiness.” His kind smile turned wolfish, and he added with a wink “and with a pretty girl to boot.”

Sandor knew the man had lost his own love in the darkness of his violent past and felt an affinity for the pain that defined the broken man he had saved in the alley so long ago. Their meeting had been nothing short of fortuitous; EB had attributed Sandor’s luck to the will of the gods. Sandor preferred to consider it a debt paid for the years of shit luck that preceded his good fortune. But they were two sides of the same coin and Sandor knew if he ever needed to vanish, EB had picked up on everything he hadn’t said. Sandor had been content living a simple life during his rehabilitation in the Eyrie, working odd jobs and spending most of his spare time with Stranger. But Sansa had always been in the back of his mind and they both knew that she would be a catalyst for profound change should they ever be brought back together.

“I’ll be leaving come morning.” He had not told Sansa as much, but it seemed foolish to waste any more time than necessary now that he had their new identities. “How do I…” Sandor struggled for a moment, unsure of what he even needed to ask. “The money that I’ve saved…”

“You’ll leave me your keys, put them in the locked coffer in the congregation room just before you leave.” EB reclined, his legs crossing again, his hand tugging thoughtfully at his lips as he spoke. “I’ll see to it that your apartment is paid for and attended until the end of your lease. Take only what you need, of course. The rest I’m sure could be donated to the Sept for those less fortunate than even us wretched souls.” They both smiled, a welcome reprieve from the only businesslike formality so uncharacteristic of their relationship. “As for the money…well, I can’t reveal all my secrets. I’ve learned secret doings are much more successful when they truly remain a secret. You have enough to get started in the account you’ll find inside. The rest will come as income and you’d be wise to treat it as such.”

Sandor nodded his agreement. He had no reason to mistrust the man who was risking his own neck to save his and a girl he would never meet. They merely stared at one another for a long while, unsure of what else to say or leave unsaid between them. In the end, the rose and settled for a strong embrace, expressing years of gratitude and admiration in such a simple gesture. EB broke their hug, his strong hands gripping Sandor’s shoulders.

“You make the most of this, brother. You’ve been given something most of us can only pine for. Do not squander your rebirth and the love you have for this woman.” He clapped Sandor on his scarred cheek, giving him a final pat before shooing him away with the wave of his hand.

Sandor regarded the man for a moment longer, words turning to dust on his tongue, nothing he could say would ever be sufficient compensation for his massive debt to the man. He chose to smile, giving him a slight nod, and offered simple words of truth. “You saved me so I could save her. Whether it was your bloody gods or some inexplicable coincidence, we will live because of you.”

If he had been a softer man, EB would have shed a tear or two, but loss and farewell were all too common in his line of work. He gave his young charge a wink and settled back into his chair, dragging the abandoned puzzle back into his lap.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this chapter is what started the whole story for me. I'd say we're halfway through and I promise things with Petyr will come to a head soon!
> 
> And a huge thank you to everyone who takes the time to read, like, or comment on this. It took a long time to stop lurking in the shadows and post, so y'all are what keep me going!

Sansa felt like a stranger in the building she had called home, walking the halls to her room in a fog of mixed excitement and dread. As her door neared, she found herself conjuring up Alayne, knowing that however brief her remaining time would be at The Vale, her disguise was slipping just as the stakes had been raised. She turned her key in the lock, eyes glazed over with the weight of her thoughts, and she found herself startled by the sight of her only friend sitting before her vanity, a knowing and devilish smile playing on Randa’s plump lips.

“Little girl lost, where have you been?” The buxom girl’s voice was little more than a playful purr and Sansa felt her stomach drop. Randa always carried herself with an air of mischief, a quality that made her a favorite amongst the men who haunted The Vale. Sansa froze, uncertain how to read the situation, her instincts useless in determining the level of danger before her. “Don’t worry, _Alayne_ ,” the grinning girl offered with a wink. “I’m the only one who missed you last night.”

“I was…” Sansa had never been a good liar and Alayne never gave herself cause for pretense. She floundered, her cheeks burning, wringing her hands for want of an explanation.

“Oh, I know where you’ve been!” Randa all but jumped to her feet, crossing the short distance to face Sansa. Sansa stiffened, feeling suddenly so defenseless and vulnerable. But her cold anxiety warmed a bit as Myranda beamed up at her with her big doe eyes. “And I’m so fucking proud of you!” She wrapped Sansa in a quick and vicelike embrace, pulling away to assess the girl she had considered her protégé. “You’ve been with that big man from the alley, haven’t you?”

Sansa withered, miles away from the confidence she had studied as Alayne, a puddle of fear at being made before she even had a chance to escape. “You can’t tell a soul, Randa. I’m begging you, if you’ve ever loved me at all, you’ll not breathe a word of this.”

Randa was taken aback, her smile fading a bit, considering Sansa with a sympathetic gaze. “Oh, Alayne, I would never.” She grabbed Sansa’s hands in her own, clutching them as further testament to her loyalty. “You deserve some happiness all your own, girl.” Randa flashed her friend a wink before patting her on the behind as she made her way for the door. “Now get ready, you go on in an hour.”

Sansa nodded obediently, her shoulders relaxing the second her door rested into the frame with an audible click. She crossed to the vanity in the middle of her small room, bracing her hands on the edges of the small top. Bringing her eyes up to consider herself in the mirror, she found a stranger staring back. Sansa half expected to see the auburn-haired girl she had been before Petyr stole her away looking back, her brief escape had fooled her into thinking of herself that way again. _Alayne_ stared back, her dark hair sharpening her features, bringing her blue eyes into powerful contrast. Her hands moved to open the small drawer of the small vanity, always the initial step in her ritual conjuring of her other self, producing the small vial of cocaine that had never run dry.

_Not too much, sweetling,_ Petyr’s cautioning words echoed in her mind. _Just enough to keep you…social._

After a well painted disguise and a few whiffs of chemical encouragement, Alayne emerged. Alayne with her confident stride, her untouchable demeanor. For all anyone knew, she was still Petyr’s daughter, still someone to look upon but not to touch.  Sansa had readied a simple bag, hidden amongst the mess of Alayne’s closet, ready to break character as soon as Sandor gave the signal. Alayne pushed the consuming thought from her mind; Alayne would never leave her father or betray his trust. Alayne would sing her pretty songs, a pretty bird everyone could see but not touch. And tonight, she would bat her pretty eyes and smile her false smiles, but come morning, Alayne would be dead.

 

 

The Vale was dimly lit, draped in dark silver and blue tapestries, small and intimate. Sandor tucked himself into the shadows of a table against the wall, his back to no one, his eyes on everyone. No one would be looking at him anyway, not with the parade of beautiful girls that would grace the small stage. The slightly raised platform in the center of the room was the only space basked in light, soft and flattering of course, but well illuminated so the men could feast their eyes and get their money’s worth. Sandor had ordered a club soda with lime, an old trick to blend in at bars when one had once been a raging alcoholic, and Sansa’s friend from the alley had served him with a knowing smirk. She treated him like any other customer as she assembled the non-drink, shooting him a secretive wink before he walked to his table.

He wasn’t the first to arrive, but he had the advantage of watching most of the patrons as they filed in and settled in to their seats. Many came in groups, likely business men that also booked rooms in the hotel, scouting companionship for their lonely nights away from their wives. Sandor wasn’t sure if he could make it through her performance without wanting to smash in some of their smug, lecherous faces, but he knew that they’d have an advantage if they made their break under the cover of night. He’d wait patiently, like a good dog, and take her away with half a day’s advantage before anyone noticed the little bird’s cage was empty.

Sandor fidgeted through the first two girls who took the stage, each of them moderately talented, but relying heavily on sex appeal to compensate for their average abilities. He thought his heart might burst right through his chest when Sansa swayed up to the microphone, clad in a sleek black dress that must have been made for her, as it hugged and flared in all the right places. Her dark hair was loose about her shoulders, a single blue flower tucked behind her right ear. He froze when her eyes fell on him, a smile breaking her mask for a fleeting moment, and he resisted every urge to steal her away right then.

Her voice was as lovely as he remembered, and he knew she was singing to him, even if her eyes were closed or making their rounds through the crowd. Sandor felt himself relax, forgetting for an instant where he was and the challenge that lay ahead. Sansa was a glowing, ethereal being and he felt himself humbled that she could ever love him. Despite everything she’d been through, she retained every bit of beauty and spirit he had loved about her from the start.

Sandor had been lost in his romantic musings, transfixed by the sight and sound of the woman he was so helplessly fucked over, when the voice of the club’s emcee pierced his tender musings and brought him back to reality. Sansa had performed a handful of predictable folk songs, as old as Westeros itself, rearranged to fit the jazzy mood of The Moondoor. But somewhere in the crowd, the man announced, someone had a request. Sansa smiled and gave a nod, seeming unphased and Sandor figured it must be some small reward for the men who would never get to hear her true song.

The moment the song began, Sandor’s entire body tensed. This wasn’t the average request, it was a declaration of war. As the _Rains of Castamere_ began, he scanned the club for any indication of whose blood he would likely shed before the night was over. The song of the Lannister family, it was too esoteric to be coincidence and he knew better than most that the only people that enjoyed that song were those on the favorable side of the tale of massacre and bloodshed. Sansa kept her face schooled in the unaffected guise of Alayne, a mere songbird from the mountains of the Eyrie, but Sandor read the white knuckled grip she fixed on the microphone as nothing more than tempered panic. Sansa’s eyes gave nothing away, falling somewhere in the indeterminate darkness, as the words poured like poison from her lips.

And then Sandor spotted him. Meryn fucking Trant was leaning against the bar, his mouth twisted in grim satisfaction. If Sandor had been rewarded by his past employers for his fierce obedience, Trant was revered for his appetite for cruelty and violence. Sandor wasn’t sure if Meryn had been sent for Sansa or merely came into a bit of luck, but he knew he couldn’t let her out of his sight. Sansa sang like a good little bird, forcing a smile and avoiding eye contact with the man who leered at her, feeding off her subtle fear.

Sandor gripped the sweating glass before him, barely checking the rage bubbling inside of him. A hand appeared on his, snapping his attention from Sansa and up into the round face of the girl from the bar. A smile curled her lips, but her big brown eyes were darkened with concern. “Thought I’d come save my glass from that strong grip you’ve got there,” Randa purred, true to her part, squeezing his hand away from the drink. “And I know my girl enough to know this song isn’t right for her.”

“Aye, you’ve the right of it.” Sandor was grateful to feel his grip on reason restored, knowing a well-attended brawl with Trant was the last thing they needed to make a clean break. “She’s not safe here anymore.”

Randa snorted at that, softening the laugh that followed so as not to draw anymore attention to them than necessary. “Your girl, _Alayne_ , hasn’t been safe in some time.” Randa sized him up, settling on him with a soft smile. “But you’ll keep her safe.” It should have sounded like a question, him being a stranger to her an all, but it came off like a directive. She gave his shoulder a strong squeeze. “I’ll have one of the girls keep him…occupied, but you need to get her away tonight. Petyr is gone and not everyone hold’s his daughter’s virtue in such high regard.”

Sandor merely nodded, inclining his chin toward Sansa, still sparkling under the spotlight. “I’ll take care of her, but don’t let that piece of shit out of your sight.” There was no need to point, Randa’s gaze settled on Trant’s shit eating grin out of the hundred odd faces in the crowd. “I need to go ahead of her, you understand? Don’t let her think I’ve left her again.” Sandor knew he merely needed the upperhand. Randa gave a slight shudder before squaring her shoulders, leaving him with a slight nod of agreement. Sandor watched as the curvy girl flitted through the crowd, setting her sights on a young redhead. She whispered in the girl’s ear, gave her a slight push toward the striped toad, and Sandor hoped the poor man’s Sansa Myranda enlisted would be enough of a distraction.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hit a wall of my own creation, but I think I sorted it all out. If you're still out there, thanks for reading :)

The world was a blur of light and sound as Sansa felt her way down from the stage, the blood still thrumming in her ears to the beat of her maddening heart. She felt a hand slip into hers, faintly locking on Myranda’s face, twisted with concern, as she allowed herself to be pulled from the platform and the shroud of her unease. Cold sweat gathered at the base of her neck, a tortuous drip of icy fear gliding down the ridges of her spine. Fractured, she sought a point on the horizon to focus on as she schooled her features; Sansa sought Sandor and Alayne prettied her smile and sauntered up to the bar.

Randa was always protective, as girls in their line of work often sought safety in one another, but tonight, her grip was like an iron manacle. Alayne consumed the fear rolling unchecked through Sansa’s mind and body, swallowing it up with a sensuous smile and a husky laugh as she slid onto a bar stool mere shoulders away from the man who bought her song. Flashing Randa a winning grin and firmly unlocking the girl’s grip, Alayne leaned over the bar, locking a slender digit around the top button of the bartender’s shirt. When her eyes panned up, Alayne was greeted by the uncertain gaze and uncomfortable smile of Lothor Brune, Petyr’s right hand. Her nail scraped against his chest through the small break in the starched fabric, eliciting a hiss from the man who nearly rivaled The Hound in his broad and deadly stature.

Alayne grinned, encouraging Lothor to lean forward toward her parted lips, turning a flushed cheek to her so she could speak for him to hear. Over enunciating so that her lip ghosted over the shell of his ear, Alayne all but purred her drink order to him, setting his shaking hands to work over the bottles holstered against the service end of the bar. He was a quiet man, minding the girls in Petyr’s employ with a distance that suggested his discomfort with their trade. He was the perfect guard. He never dipped into his own stash. And he was loathe to bend the rules, no matter the circumstance.

“Is there a chance for snow tonight, Lothor?” Alayne ran a pale finger against the hand he anchored to the bar. Though his fingers were splayed wide, flat against the wood slicked with condensation and spilled drinks, his fingertips were white as ice and locked in place. “It seems I have found myself some interesting company in need of entertainment this evening.” Their heads turned nearly at the same time to take in the man to her right, the large hulking form that oozed danger as he unabashedly undressed Alayne with his eyes, screaming peril as he fixed her with a cruel smile. Lothor grimaced and Alayne knew the cause was lost.

“Are you sure that’s a wise move, Miss Stone?” Lothor rasped, his voice low enough so only she could hear, his body angling away from her touch, attempting to reign in a bit of his lost control. He stole sideways glances at Trant, who flicked his tongue over the neck of his beer bottle lasciviously, eye fucking the girl whose tits were on full display before him in her sequined cocktail dress. “A man like him won’t stop if you say no. You know how your _father_ feels about keeping you….pure.” The word caught in his throat as her nail dragged down his chest toward his navel, skipping gently over each button. She was touching Brune, but her eyes were fixed on the apparition from a distant past, merely a few bodies away. Somewhere in the dark, Sansa screamed caution, but Alayne merely grinned at the challenge.

“There are many ways to please a man, Lothor.” Alayne pulled the man within an inch of her lips, teasing him with a low moan as her lips ghosted over his. She relaxed her finger and let him rock back on his heels, letting out a hiss of air he had forgotten he held. His face was stony, every bit the guard he truly was despite his mechanical talent for mixing drinks, and finally he raised his eyes to hers. The battle was lost, she knew, and her eyes flitted down the bar to find an easier mark.

“You are playing with fire, _Alayne_.” He narrowed his eyes at her, looking right through her air of seduction, and she went cold. Perhaps Petyr had divulged her true identity to his closest man, knowing that preserving the reputation of a high-class girl would certainly rank higher than keeping unwanted attention from a bastard born daughter. “Take your drink and go sit with the other _good_ girls backstage.”

Alayne pouted playfully, not giving into his rouse. Randa tensed at her side, Myranda’s hand clasped around her wrist clenching and unclenching as if imparting some secret code. Alayne merely turned a winning smile to her best friend and slid her phone into the girl’s hand as covertly as she could. Alayne pressed a kiss to Randa’s cheek, a subtle goodbye, squeezing her hand before she traveled down the bar, just past the eyes that consumed her. Alayne pressed herself against the bar, drawing the attention of Petyr’s least honorable guard.

Lyn Corbray lifted his eyes to her, his wormy lips curving into a smirk that would usually make Sansa feel as though tiny bugs coursed through her veins. But Alayne knew Corbray’s tastes ran against her charms and he would gladly lead her to ruin than protective feelings for her. His predatory grin told all, and as she reiterated the familiar code in their strange home, offering that he had in fact seen flurries that very night, he palmed a small glass vial into her delicate hand with a wink. “Winter is coming, _Alayne_.”

She rolled the vial in her fingers, chewing the inside of her cheek as a sudden dread peeled at the corners of her disguise. Alayne knocked back her glass, ice clinking against her teeth as the lime infused gin slid easily down her throat. The astringent liquor numbed first and bloomed into heat deep in her stomach after the initial chill abated. Alayne pushed the glass with a single finger and a wink, watching as Corbray nearly filled her rocks glass to the brim with alcohol, a faint misting of soda bubbling over the surface. He was wearing his familiar shit-eating grin as he sloppily rubbed a lime wedge around the rim of her glass, letting the spent fruit sink to the bottom with an unceremonious _plunk_.

Alayne maintained an air of practiced nonchalance, the consequence of often being the object of desire or study in The Vale. She corralled her drink in a perfectly manicured hand, shooting Corbray a perfunctory wink of thanks before turning her gaze to the man still boring holes into her. Her upper back arched against the padded stool, she met Trant’s gaze with a slight smirk. The girl Alayne had pushed back into the corner of her mind signaled another alarm, but Alayne consumed that surge of fear, drowning Sansa out as she appraised the man’s homely affect. Meryn Trant was far from handsome, his drooping eyes set tragically close, his patchy red beard as unkempt and unruly as a garden full of weeds. But Meryn was far more than The Vale’s bread and butter lecher, and Alayne detected a vein of cruelty in his black eyes and his unwavering smirk. Sansa wanted to run, knew to well the feeling of the man’s fists against her sides as he smiled through her _lessons_ , and Alayne found the stolen memory made her stomach roil with anxiety.

The drink Corbray fixed her was hardly a cocktail, merely a pretense that turned a shot into a drink, and the warm spread of liquor pushed Alayne toward her mark as an empty smile formed on her mouth. Looking up at the men that stood between her and Trant, Alayne squeezed arms and gave shy smiles, plying men from their seats, coyly pushing them out of her way. As she turned her schooled features toward Trant, Alayne felt an unfamiliar quake in the pit of her stomach, her grasp on control wavering as the man curled a hairy hand about her upper arm. Without a word, he nodded toward the exit just behind the swell of the bar, tugging her in such a way that brokered no protest. Alayne drifted into his forceful touch, her hand grasping her drink as if it were her only anchor to reality, slipping the little glass vial Corbray provided into the valley of her breasts. Trant smirked at that, palming her ass roughly before pushing her into the hall.

Sansa directed them to the stairs to their left, the rooms girls entertained in separated from their living quarters and marked by lush amenities. Trant eyed her wordlessly, waving a teal diamond-shaped keyring her way, announcing suite 354 as their destination. She wondered who gave him the key and whether Randa could be successful communicating with Sandor. Alayne swallowed thickly around the lump forming in her throat, the little voice called Sansa pecking at her cool demeanor. Sansa knew this man, knew his cruel touch. Alayne tried to rise above, clutching to her façade, her only semblance of control.

Alayne’s heels clicked against the concrete steps, issuing a loud trail to anyone who could care to listen, as she followed the man whose attentions grew fierce as they breached the second-floor landing and clutched her hand hard enough to make her gasp. Alayne breathed deep, anything to distract from the crushing feel of his grip as it wandered her form. Trant forced her to walk in front og him, his hands wrapping possessively and forcefully around her waist, his fingers nearly touching over her sex atop her sequined gown. She had never felt quite so ensnared. Alayne struggled to breathe fully, panic finally seeping into her chest.

Trant was silent the entire walk to the room he paid for, likely with a few high faced bills greasing Corbray’s palm, directing her with every hard squeeze and sudden push. As they neared the room, Alayne felt Trant’s body behind hers, swallowing her every move. Her breath was labored, and she felt flush with heat, the corners of her vision darkening with each sharp intake of breath. After scratching the key across the lock, Alayne stared at her quaking hand until her trembling stopped.

“Get on with it, Stark.” Trant’s voice was in her ear, his hands driving her back against him violently. His mouth claiming the skin of her neck, teeth sinking into her flesh. Alayne suppressed the reflexive hiss of pain and pushed the door open with a forced, sultry smile that distracted from the fear in her eyes. She knew that time was the only weapon at her disposal, her slender fingers dipping into the neckline of her dress to produce the vial. It was a long shot, but plying the man with liquor and coke seemed all she had. Giving it a shake, she cocked a brow at her predator, trying to ignore the hunger glinting in his eyes.

“Let’s have a little fun, shall we?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing, I'm just a mere slave to the ship!
> 
> Tags, characters, and rating subject to change as the story progresses.


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